Inside a Broken Mind
by stress
Summary: The killings were the easy part. It was all of the lies and the pretending that tested his control... The events of Harper’s Island as seen through Henry’s eyes. WIP.
1. prologue

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

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**i. prologue;**

The scuba tank was tucked among the luggage, half spent and inconspicuous as it leaned against one of Trish's high-end cases. It had been a stroke of genius to convince his fiancée and her family to load the yacht early so as not to crowd the _Tarapunga_ when the guests began to arrive. How else would he have found an excuse to lure his first victim down to the harbor? Or find a place to stow his equipment when he was done?

Running his long, thin fingers through his dark brown hair, he tugged at a stray curl at the nape of his neck before using his palm to try and tame the unruly front. He was pleased to see how quickly it had dried. There was no sign that he had ever been down below at all.

Good.

It was easier than he thought to begin; so preoccupied by with the wedding details, Henry was worried he might have grown rusty while he waited agonizingly for his promised return to Harper's Island. But he had been determined and, with only one day until the chartered yacht set sail, he called Ben Wellington—conveniently using Trish's pink cell phone, just in case—and invited him out for an early breakfast.

Wellington, he wasn't surprised to find, was already drunk from a night out with an old friend of his when he called. Cousin Ben had money, a tendency to overdo it and was just too nosy for his own good. In the past few weeks he'd been asking too many questions. There was no doubt in Henry's mind: Ben had to be the first to go.

Besides, an obnoxious, entitled Wellington was too much for him to handle. Henry already had more than enough to worry about—more than enough Wellingtons to placate—without adding any more to the mix.

Despite a night of partying, Wellington had arrived at the little café just off the Seattle shore only twenty minutes past the time he agreed to meet Henry there. Henry was waiting for him. Always a step ahead, he had expected Ben to be late, he'd counted on it in fact, and, with a charming, dimpled grin, he already had a tall glass of orange juice set before the bleary-eyed, tousle-haired playboy's place for when he slipped inside and slouched at his seat.

The sedatives slipped into the glass were strong. Dosed just so, Ben was awake through a dry muffin, another cup of juice and ten minutes of mindless conversation before anything even seemed off. But when his red eyes turned redder and he began to yawn, Henry threw a handful of bills onto the table. Feigning concern, he offered to drive him back to his hotel. Ben, fighting off his hangover—and not quite understanding where this sudden onslaught of tiredness came from—nodded gingerly in agreement.

He was fast asleep and slumped against the side of Henry's car before the door was even open.

He never saw it coming.

It was a relief to drop his act the moment that Ben Wellington dropped to the dirt. Suddenly all business, Henry popped his trunk and quickly retrieved the two scuba tanks he'd prepared for just this morning. If Ben noticed how out of the way Henry had parked his car, he never said. The position was chosen specifically; this early, and so isolated, there were no witnesses as he stripped down to his wetsuit, grabbed the zip ties, strapped the tanks to both himself and his unconscious victim, and hauled Ben Wellington to the water.

It didn't take long to swim back to the docked boat; or, at least, not as long as Henry had given himself to accomplish the task. Before long, Wellington was where he needed to be, Henry had swum back to his car, and the plan—after months… _years…_ of preparation—was finally in motion. Now the wetsuit was folded neatly, hidden underneath the spare tire in his car. The scuba tank might be necessary—especially if he wanted to take the chance to cut loose Wellington's corpse before he was discovered—and he brazenly brought it onboard when he made a purposeful visit to the _Tarapunga_ hours before it was scheduled to sail.

No one, he was pleased to notice, even looked twice at this scuba tank—or the dark-haired, kind-faced groom-to-be they all imagined Henry Dunn to be.

The chartered yacht was empty except for himself, of course, the captain fiddling with the gears, and the decorator's crew putting last minute touches to the festive arrangement of crepe paper and balloons. All too busy with their own preoccupations, none of them noticed it when he slipped aboard to plant the scuba tank or hide the sedatives in his luggage. He would have to make sure to slip the plastic orange bottle among J.D.'s prescriptions once they arrived at the Inn; it would be a prudent step, making sure he planted the incriminating evidence if he wanted to set up his kid brother to take the fall for as long as he needed him to. For now, though, the pills would have to be safe stowed away in the toe of a spare sock.

He stayed aboard for as long as he dared. It was one thing to flaunt what he was doing; it was another to be foolish. He hadn't been caught once in six years. He didn't intend to start now.

It didn't matter if anyone saw him leaving the boat when he did. If asked, Thomas Wellington sent him down to check on the preparations. But no one asked. Henry Dunn was a Wellington himself—or as good as, as far as they knew—and none of the crew even glanced up and over at him when, whistling a cheery tune, he left the _Tarapunga_ in favor of the harbor.

Besides, it never even mattered what any of them might have seen as he left because he'd already been able, thanks to careful planning and a touch of cunning, to begin the first stages of their grand, elaborate scheme unseen. Ben Wellington, with his cocky attitude and his annoying propensity to poke his nose in where it didn't belong, was in place. Tied tightly to the propeller shaft on the underside of the _Tarapunga_, a spare tank on his back to keep him alive (for now), he was right where Henry needed him to be.

Henry couldn't wait until two o'clock. What he wouldn't give to be able to slip below the waves again in time to see the expression on Cousin Ben's face when the sedatives wore off and he found himself face to face with the blades of a propeller…

Unable to contain his boyish grin, he glanced impatiently down at his watch as he casually strolled down the lengths of the Seattle Harbor. It was only a quarter to ten now. It had been hours since he started his day. Swimming so far and scuba diving so long—not to mention carrying the dead weight of an unconscious victim—had made him hungry; the promise of what was to come once they left the mainland made him _ravenous_.

So, with a pep in his step that had everything to do with what he had done, what he was going to do, and who he was going to see in a few short hours, Henry headed back to his car. He had promised Trish that he would meet her and her family for a celebratory brunch before the real festivities began and, slipping back into the comfortable skin of Henry Dunn, that was what he intended to do.

He just hoped none of them wondered where their cousin Ben was…

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**End Note**: This is the Henry story that I've been thinking about starting. I think it'll be fascinating to explore Henry - his actions, motives and emotions - as he plays the role of Wakefield's son and accomplice. This chapter starts right before the show begins, but I will use the first episode as a starting point in the next chapter. After that, it will use scenes we know, scenes I imagine and a lot more to tell Henry's story. I hope you guys like it!

_- stress, 08.16.09_


	2. whap, part one

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. Any dialogue from the first episode, "Whap", included is used only to further the story.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

* * *

**ii. whap, part one;**

He could hear the sounds of the wedding party above him, each and every one of them excited and loud and absolutely giddy on expensive champagne.

But as the guests gathered on the deck of the _Tarapunga_, looking over the sides and waiting for the yacht to leave the harbor, one half of the golden couple was already past the unnecessary hoorah. As it was, the noise and the expectations were enough to give him the beginnings of what could surely turn into a very violent headache and, having slipped away to the hold, he searched one of the pockets on his suitcase for a small bottle of ibuprofen. He popped the two brown pills into his mouth, chased them with a small cup of water from the bathroom and swallowed.

Henry Dunn was the stereotypical Boy Scout: always prepared.

It was only a few minutes to two and he could feel his heart race in anticipation, coupled with a slight panic that not all of the guests had arrived. It was beyond his control—the only one element in their whole plan of revenge he couldn't control now—and it was that, more than anything else, that had him set on edge. Ben, he knew, was here even if he wasn't, and Uncle Marty always made an entrance; there would be no doubt when he finally arrived. And then, of course, there was Abby…

Where _was_ Abby?

She would be coming soon, he reminded himself as he quickly shoved the little white bottle back in his suitcase; out of sight, out of mind. She had to be. She promised, and Abby always stood by her word. Henry had been worried when her RSVP envelope arrived later than it should have, but she promised. Abby Mills would be on this boat before it left for Harper's Island.

Or, he vowed, he wouldn't be.

Tapping his long fingers nervously against his freshly pressed pants, Henry paced the small room, wondering if he should make another appearance above deck. Trish would be worried—if, of course, she could pry herself from Shea's side long enough to notice he was gone—and it might seem strange if he kept away from the limelight for long. It was his wedding, after all. How suspicious would it be if he ignored the festivities and ignored his fiancée during this farce of an affair?

Suspicion was the last thing he needed.

Henry sighed, pushing down the rising panic. He felt his mask slip, his hold on the situation loosening, and quickly fought to maintain control. It wasn't even two yet. There could've been traffic. Her flight might've been delayed. Maybe she had already boarded the deck while he was down below, pacing…

That was it, he decided. It had to be.

Taking a deep breath, grateful that his headache already seemed to pass, Henry stopped fidgeting. Suddenly he was back again, his resolve was firm and he knew exactly what he had to do. First, though, he had a part to play and, with a perfection that any actor would've envied, he instantly became Henry Dunn—Dunn, not Wakefield—once more. Dimpled grin and trusting eyes and all.

Having straightened his light tan suit jacket and resuming his own brand of easygoing excitement, Henry left the comfortable confines of the hold. Once on deck again, he was greeted by a cheer and a rather macho chant from his groomsmen. The smile he wore was real, though maybe lacking in a sense of irony. Sully, Danny, Malcolm, Booth (where was Booth?)… nothing would've come in the way of his frat brothers attending his wedding.

They were good guys, he thought as he welcomed their pats and the Sacred Turtle beer bottle they placed in his waiting hand, but _way _too predictable.

If what he was doing wasn't so important, so _right_… well, he just might feel bad for what was going to happen to them. But the essence of a sacrifice was that you had to give something up, something that meant a lot, and Henry already made his choice.

At least he was going to give them one hell of a party first.

Jerked out of his thoughts by Danny's hand on his shoulder—though his carefully composed expression never once betrayed just what he was guarding behind his mask—he followed his friend's point to the upper deck until he was drinking in the sight of Trish, all done up and with her mother's pearls around her slender throat. She was absolutely beautiful, he had to admit, but she wasn't Abby. And, to Henry, that made all the difference in the world.

Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, Trish mouthed something to the boys down below—_I love you_. He played along with his friends, pretending not to know who she was talking to, before laughing along with them as he branded himself the victor. He was the winner. There was nothing that Henry wanted that he couldn't have.

Nothing at all.

Sipping his beer, he allowed himself to remain surrounded by those considered to be his friends. It was strange how comfortable he still felt to be around them. Rather than feel any sort of guilt for tricking them, he chose to just sit back and enjoy the time they all had left together. He knew that the guys thought his enthusiasm, his sense of brotherhood, was because he was getting married, but it wasn't so.

Henry wasn't getting married, but he was preparing himself to make the biggest commitment of his life.

As usual, his thoughts returned to Abby. They never strayed from her for long. She was his world, she was his home and, before the week was out, she would finally—and absolutely—be _his_.

His grin widened, he took another swig off of Malcolm's fresh-brewed beer, and he refused to continue worrying about her arrival. Just because it was already a few minutes past two and the boat should have already left the harbor, that didn't mean that she wasn't coming.

She would be there.

But, Henry thought after another minute or two, why wasn't she there _yet_?

He got up then, leaving the trio of his friends to their beer—and Booth to his seasickness over the side—as he moved towards the boarding plank. For all intents and purposes, he was the dashing host, welcoming any last minute guests to the party on the boat. There was no reason for anyone to believe he was antsy, impatiently watching and waiting for the appearance of the one person this whole wedding was designed for.

No reason anymore because, with a deep breath and a true smile of relief, Henry was sure she had just shown up.

There, just past the ends of the Harbor, a garish, yellow Bay Area taxi cab pulled up to the street. He couldn't explain it, he didn't know how he knew, but he was absolutely positive. By the shadow of her profile and the downward, preoccupied tilt of the faceless passenger's head, he knew it.

Abby Mills had finally arrived.

Henry moved to the side, nervous, anxious fingers holding tight to the rail as he watched her intently. What was taking her so long? Why hadn't she left the taxi left? He could still see her in the backseat, hesitant to grab the door handle. Her head was inclined slightly—maybe she was talking to the cabbie? Why was she talking to the cabbie? Why wasn't she with him, standing with him, talking to _him?_

Why was—

Ah, Henry sighed. The yellow door swung open and Abby, awkwardly, endearingly, stepped out.

Everything was okay now. Abby was here.

She still had to pay the cab driver, get her luggage from the trunk and, knowing Abby like he did, probably agonize for a few more minutes before she actually started toward the chartered yacht. But she was there, and he suddenly felt as if the world was right again.

And right then was when Henry heard the loud, frantic rhythm of a Mexican flavored song, the trumpets and the strings of the Mariachi as it cut through the idle chitchat and the pretentious conversations that buzzed along the boat. Without even having to look over, he knew that the music was a herald to Uncle Marty's arrival. His "uncle"—the brother of Henry's good for nothing adopted father—had managed to pick that exact moment to arrive. He actually succeeded in swaying Henry's attention away from Abby if only for a second or two.

As he nodded knowingly at his uncle's actions, he noticed that he wasn't alone anymore. Trish, having finally ditched her family, joined him just as Marty Dunn, bag in hand and leading the sombrero wearing performers, strolled carefree toward the _Tarapunga_.

He hadn't been kidding when he thought that his uncle had to make an entrance anywhere he went. Partly amused by imagining just how pissed Trish's dad was at having his high class affair interrupted by a traveling Mariachi troupe, and partly amazed that Uncle Marty had chose this way to introduce himself to Trish's family, Henry just shook his head. He definitely had style, if anything else.

Trish, as usual, gushed over his over-the-top and boisterous performance and Uncle Marty, just as usual, made all the right replies. Henry actually envied that about the man—he never seemed to have to work hard at being likable or friendly or charming. He just _was_.

As Uncle Marty tried not to be so obvious with his blatant flirting—his eyes, Henry noticed, were undressing Trish's girlfriend, Chloe, as he greeted the partygoers Marty-style—Henry's brown eyes flickered there and back again, drawn to his uncle's bag.

As he peered sideways at the bag, knowing what it had to hold, Henry found himself asking his uncle just _where_ he had found a Mariachi band in Seattle. Uncle Marty's mischievous grin was answer enough. He was like a magician in his way: he never revealed his methods. Everything was a trade secret with him. Henry decided he didn't want to know and, with a laugh, Uncle Marty agreed.

His quick question had done what it was meant to do: no one noticed his attention on the bag. He couldn't contain his elated smile. Henry loved how getting married was the perfect excuse for him to let his pleasure show for anyone to see; of course, his uncle probably thought it was something he said. He had hoped that Uncle Marty wouldn't forget the money. As a side experiment, a certain "what if" scenario, Henry was curious to see what sort of role the $250,000 crammed inside the light brown bag would play.

He didn't need the money—money held no desire for him, only the promise of his happily ever after did—but his fingers itched to grab that bag out of his uncle's hand. Uncle Marty had already told him that he intended to invest in Malcolm's dream of a real brewery, Sacred Turtle worldwide, but Henry had other plans. Better plans.

As Trish placed her hands on Uncle Marty's arm, acting the part of the proper hostess and taking him away to meet her father, Henry didn't follow. Not moving from his place by the yacht's entrance, he wondered if he would still be his uncle's favorite if he knew that Henry had killed Marty's brother, the liar who pretended to be Henry's father for twenty-one years. Or when he discovered his eldest nephew was responsible for plotting his upcoming demise?

It was food for thought but suddenly, instantly, Henry's thoughts were bombarded and replaced by the swelling in his chest he experienced. How could he, if even for a moment, have forgotten about Abby?

The biggest grin he'd worn since the last time he saw her—five months, three weeks, and six days ago when he surprised Abby in Los Angeles for her twenty-fifth birthday—split his face as she slowly traveled down the wooden docks, sheepishly pulling her suitcase behind her.

She waved over at him, the gentle motion of her hand breaking the spell she held over him. Henry waved back and, faster than he probably should have—he still had to be careful of creating suspicion—he met her at the platform, pulling her into a tight squeeze.

"I thought you might never get out of that cab," he confessed when he finally reminded himself he had to let her go.

"Well, I, uh… needed a moment," she admitted.

He couldn't keep the concern from his voice. "Second thoughts?"

"About going home?"

_Home_. That one word never sounded so beautiful than when it was said in Abby's voice. Home… that's where they were going. Together, with each other, Henry and Abby were going back to Harper's Island for the first time in seven years. At last, they were going _home_.

He had so much to tell her, so much to say, but he never got the chance. Before he'd been able to offer a heartfelt reply, another voice joined in from up above: "You know, I told him you would come."

"Trish!" Abby's squeal was both, in his opinion, slightly girlish and undeniably adorable.

As the girl he loved left his side, hurrying towards the girl he was supposed to marry, Henry watched as Abby gave Trish a hug as big as the one she had given him. He had to bite back the scowl that threatened to replace his grin. Leave it to Trish to break up the moment. He would have loved to have Abby to himself for only a few seconds more, if he could.

He didn't want to share her.

That feeling, that possessive certainty, only increased when Abby finished boarding the _Tarapunga _and greeted his friends. He had met Malcolm, Booth and Danny during college; Sully, though, had been one of his closest friends—but not his best friend… Abby was his _best_ friend—since junior high. Henry had talked about Abby and his summers on the island so much during the school year that, when Sully first met Abby, he felt like he already knew her.

Sully gave her that ridiculous nickname—_Abner_, he inwardly sneered—and the pair actually became friends. Maybe it was because of that, because of the sharp, jealous pang he knew at the affection that she showed for someone else, that Henry felt so bothered when Sully reached out and, embracing her tightly, he lifted Abby up off of her feet.

He knew Sully. A notorious serial womanizer, Sully would hit on and try to get with any girl in the nearby vicinity. He had tried desperately to win Trish over back during their college days, Henry knew, but there was never any real chance for him to have a go at Abby.

Henry would kill him before he let that happen.

He wanted nothing more than to grab hold of Abby and whisk her away from the guys… but he couldn't. He didn't dare; not yet, at least. Not when they were still in Seattle. Besides, Trish was waiting for him and Abby was enjoying herself. Her happiness was important to him, too, and he could always check on her later.

Leading Trish away, pulling her close in an attempt to fool the others in a way he used to fool himself, Henry noticed that she suddenly seemed preoccupied. That, or she had noticed how at ease he seemed now that Abby arrived. Taking his good humor to mean that he was eager to get started—which, in a way, it did—she reminded him that _she_ was still expecting another guest.

"We're still waiting on Cousin Ben."

"He's always late," Henry countered, thinking of only that morning's breakfast.

"He always answers, though," she pointed out.

She was right about that. How was she to know that that was the only thing she was right about at the moment? Taking his eyes off of Abby for just a second, he said, "Give him a call again." And then, like a magnet drawn to steel, his eyes were back—but only for another moment. He wished his gaze could linger but, reluctantly, he let his attention return to his fiancée.

He was just in time to notice the flash of concern as Trish stared down, puzzled, at the screen of her phone. "Voicemail again."

"We can wait if you want," he offered. Not that it would do any good, but it was the thought that counted.

Trish pursed her lips, the strain of the decision weighing on her face. She shook her head. "No… no, we should go."

With a satisfied look of determination on his face, he met Thomas Wellington's gaze and made a single, rotating gesture with his finger. He thought of Cousin Ben as he did and he hoped fervently that the sedatives had worn off on schedule as he planned. It was a petty wish, to want his victim to see the propeller blades whir to life right before they claimed his, but Henry felt justified. He couldn't abide those who thought they knew everything anymore than he could abide liars.

And Henry Wakefield Dunn _hated_ liars.

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**End Note**: I just wanted to thank everyone who read, or maybe reviewed the first chapter. I wasn't too sure how something like would be received and I'm glad it went over pretty well. I had a blast getting into Henry's psyche for this first full chapter - and I can't wait to start on the next one :) I had to really focus on a canon scene in order to set up this story but the majority of chapter two will be set offstage. It should be fun ;) Let me know what you guys think so far!

_- stress, 08.20.09_


	3. whap, part two

**Disclaimer**_:_ The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. Any dialogue from the first episode, "Whap", included is used only to further the story.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

* * *

**iii. whap, part two;**

He loved Harper's Island in September. There was just something about it that made him feel light and free. Unburdened, even. _Happy_.

The sky up above was an amazingly clear blue, the breeze off of the Pacific Ocean was cool and crisp… even the smell of fresh fish on the air made him feel content. It was the end of the summer season and, though he was, at the age of twenty seven, a grown man, he still felt a little naughty for being on the island after the tourists had returned to the mainland.

Henry Dunn was a Tacoma native with the heart of a local.

As he slowly made his way down the trail that would lead him towards the sprawling green lawn of the Candlewick Inn, Henry reflected that his company at that exact moment probably had as much to do with the pleasant way he was feeling as being on the island itself did. It hadn't been his intent to meet up with Abby when he made his excuses and hurried off to meet his father shortly after the _Tarapunga_ docked… but he was glad he did.

Sometimes, he marveled, the two of them were just so in sync; they were so in tune with each other, their bond so deep that a simple title or a name for whatever they were wasn't adequate for the relationship they had. Abby's feet had led her to the site where Henry's father had killed her mother—_their_ mother—seven years ago. Henry's, though they trod a different path and with another reason other than guilt in his mind, had done the same.

He had caught her with her guard down, taking the opportunity just to touch her again. The lies came quickly; he told her what she wanted—what she needed—to hear. He caught a glimpse of his father lurking in the shadows of the thick trees but Henry was already gone. His arm snug around her shoulder, he left without even so much as a backwards glance in John Wakefield's direction.

Now he walked alongside her, talking comfortably as he chose to emerge out from behind his carefully crafted mask. There was no pretense with Abby, and no acting the part of someone else. When he was with her, it was the only time he really felt like he could be himself. The smiles were real, the jokes lighthearted and carefree. Even the stolen touches were sweet and sincere, full of a longtime friendship without the heavy intentions that Henry yearned to express someday.

But that day didn't need to be today. Not yet. Not until he made sure they could be together—only then, when they had all the time in the world ahead of them, could he finally confess just how much he loved her, how much he needed her and how much he would do just for her.

He breathed deep, ever grinning, trying to keep her mind off of the haunting past that shadowed her as he took any and every opportunity to make her smile, maybe even bump (not so) casually into her side. He knew what this was doing to her, bringing her back to Harper's Island and making her confront the demons she left behind her. But it was essential. He had to do it.

This was _home_. Henry knew that. He just had to remind Abby that she knew it, too.

A small quip about her father, a swift kick on the back of his thigh courtesy of her gentle shoe and it was like old times again. Everything about him was genuine, from his glee to his excitement. Even the sight of the near-century old Candlewick Inn wasn't enough to drag him down, kill his buzz. He knew that this cozy moment couldn't last forever; having to leave Abby though he didn't want to would only make it sweeter when they could be with one another.

Henry thought they could have had at least a few moments longer together. They were most certainly—after their individual detours through the woods—the last of the wedding party to arrive. Maybe, for that reason, that was why Maggie Krell stood at the top of the stairs of her inn, waiting for one of the guests of honor to finally get there.

She was standing alongside Trish and Thomas Wellington, making idle chitchat as they watched for Henry to walk up. She saw him first and, moving gracefully for such a solid woman as she all but danced down the steps, Maggie called out his name:

"Henry… Henry Dunn! You're here!"

_Henry Dunn_… and suddenly, as quick as if it had never left, the mask was slipped back into place.

Henry glanced at Abby. At the sound of his name, they had both stopped. He could feel the trepidation and nerves coming off of her in waves and, if only to keep her calm, he asked companionably, "Hey, does Maggie know you're coming?"

She shook her head. "Nobody does."

He almost wished he could have kept it that way.

Maggie's wide eyes were on Henry as she made her way towards the pair but he could see the gears working as they slid over to land on Abby. Seven years or not, Abby looked just the way she always did—and it was no surprise to see the flash of recognition spanning her middle-aged as Maggie changed course, heading straight for Abby instead.

When she arrived at the foot of the steps Maggie placed her hands comfortably around Abby—Henry tried to ignore the pangs of jealousy that he always felt when someone else was around her—and told her warmly as she hugged her, "You grew up so beautiful."

And then, despite the continued feelings of envy, Henry felt he could forgive Maggie for rushing forward and hogging his Abby's attention. At least she had the common decency to notice just how beautiful Abby was…

Maggie sighed as she pulled back, looking from Abby back to Henry. "Just the best week ever."

Henry was always so agreeable whenever he was back at home on Harper's Island. He found himself agreeing with Maggie about that, too.

This _was_ a great beginning, he decided as he stole a glance at Abby's impish smile, to the best week ever… until Maggie turned against him and his wants and desires, grabbing his hand and pulling him away from his place at Abby's side. She was already going on about what she had in store for the guests during this wedding—it was nothing like what he had in store, he noted wryly—and he just kept nodding, agreeing with her as if this wedding actually _meant _something to him.

Well, in a way he guessed it did. There was only so much he could do to make the upcoming massacre justified. The least he could do was give Trish the wedding she deserved first…

And so, because there was nothing else he could do—Maggie's grip was deceptively strong for a woman of her size and age—he allowed himself to be steered up the stairs and away from Abby. She caught Trish's wrist as she was coming down to meet them at the base of the steps. With a gentle pull, she led the engaged couple through the entryway of the Candlewick and past the lobby towards her office, telling them importantly, "You two… we have a lot of work to do."

When Maggie Krell, wedding planner _extraordinaire_, said that there was a lot to be done, she wasn't kidding. Henry could have kicked himself for agreeing with Trish that they should let Maggie be in charge of their wedding preparations on the island. Sure, it might not have been as realistic if he didn't let the local woman help out with the event actually centering around the Candlewick, but it would have saved him another headache.

As he reluctantly followed the woman into her prim little office and took a seat alongside Trish, already tuning out most of what Maggie was jabbering on about, he wondered where his luggage was. He had a funny feeling that he would need another ibuprofen before long.

* * *

Maggie was still talking, Trish was listening with rapt attention and Henry was wondering what Abby was doing when his phone rang.

It was set to vibrate, tucked neatly into his right hand pants pocket. He felt it rumble when it unexpectedly went off midway through their planning session and, involuntary, his leg gave a little jerk. He recognized the sensation for what it was a moment later and, ignoring the strange looks from both Trish and Maggie, he slipped his hand inside his pocket, pulling the phone back out with it.

He lifted it up so that he could see it but Trish, who was looking curiously at him now, couldn't get a glimpse of what the screen read. Not that, if she had seen it, it would mean much to her. The display read "UNKNOWN" but Henry… he knew exactly who was calling him. And, considering he had ditched him out by the Tree of Woe earlier, he had a pretty good idea _why_ he was calling him, too.

Standing up abruptly, he smiled apologetically at his fiancée. He gestured at his phone, purposely keeping the screen concealed in the palm of his hand. "I'm sorry, Trish, but I have to take this call. It's someone from the office and you know it's gotta be important if they're calling me so soon."

She couldn't hide her slight pout, or the wary glance she shot Maggie. "Can't it wait?"

He shook his head, trying to look upset with her rather than annoyed at her. "I'll be right back, I promise." And then, before she could argue any more—or the phone could stop ringing—he kissed the top of her head swiftly, offered a small wave towards Maggie and quickly slipped out into the hallway.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Henry flipped the phone open expertly and said, "Hello?"

"Henry."

His father's voice erupted through the speaker, loud and gruff and menacing though he knew that he—and he, alone—had nothing to fear from the man. John Wakefield was a serial killer and a sociopath but, to Henry Dunn, he was just _Dad_.

"Hi," Henry replied shortly, taking a few quick steps away from Maggie's office. The wood looked thick enough but there was always a chance that Wakefield's voice might have carried through. And he couldn't have that.

"Are you alone?"

"Hold on," he told him, glancing over his shoulder, checking for the appropriate answer to the unsaid part of his father's question.

Neither Trish nor Maggie had left the office to follow him back into the lobby; with as much work as the two women thought they had to do for the upcoming wedding, he doubted they even noticed that he was gone, really. The lobby itself was pretty clear, except for the Inn workers in their noticeable blue polo shirts, and he was surprised to see that most of the wedding party had either gone off to their rooms or started to explore the island since he'd been cooped up in Maggie's office.

Whatever way he looked at it, though, he wasn't exactly alone. No one was near enough to hear his conversation, but Henry wasn't the sort to take any chances. Not about this. Not when so much was at stake, or when this whole plan hinged on the facts that Henry was an ecstatic bridegroom and John Wakefield was nothing more than a rotting body in a cursed grave.

Keeping his cell phone against his ear, listening to the heavy, flustered breathing on the other end, Henry quickly left the lobby behind him. Instead, he headed back down the long hallway, past Maggie's office and out of earshot of anybody milling around the Candlewick's entrance.

"Okay," he said after a few terse seconds. "I'm alone now."

Wakefield's reply was both short and curt: "You sure? You're not still with _her_?"

There was no mistaking the hiss in his father's voice. As bitter and as angry as he knew Wakefield was for the betrayal of his old girlfriend—Henry's mother—and the long imprisonment that he resented and denied deserving, there were only a handful of people who continually earned his ire, who his elaborate schemes of revenge were centered around. Abby's dad, the sheriff, was one; unfortunately, so was Abby.

_Her_…

Henry knew that his father was referring to Abby. It made his stomach clench and his hands give an involuntary jerk. It was awful, being put in between the two families he considered his: the father he discovered only six years ago and the friend he'd loved for twenty-five years. He had the sinking suspicion that, before the week was out, he would be forced to make one last important choice.

Between Abby and Wakefield, Henry knew that there wasn't_ even_ a choice.

Hoping that, somehow, someway, maybe he could convince his father that Abby was as wonderful as Henry knew she was, he refused to rise to Wakefield's bait. No matter what, Henry pointblank refused to fall prey to the man's belief that, in order to be free, he had to destroy everyone he loved. He could never hurt Abby, and he could only be free when he was with her.

But, unable to explain that to his father with his stubborn ideas and obsession with revenge, Henry just said, "No. I'm not."

"I missed you. At the tree."

As usual, there was the promise of a long discussion of the merits of being a Wakefield versus the scum of the Mills family hidden in his simple words. After these last few years, Henry thought he might know his father's thoughts and motives better than Wakefield did himself. Just like his friends, if you knew him well enough, he could be so damn predictable.

"I didn't bring her," Henry said in response, "if that's what you want to know."

"I know, Henry. I was waiting for you when that brat arrived." He chuckled, a low grating sound that made Henry bite down on his lip. It was an attempt to keep his heated retorts back before he could make Wakefield any more suspicious about his true feelings for Abby and, luckily for him, it worked. Barely. "You really frightened her when you came up behind her like that."

He might not have known it, but Wakefield's flippant remark struck Henry deep, transforming his anger into sudden remorse. He could still see the way Abby's hands flew up in defense, the way her dark eyes widened in panic when Henry grabbed her by the shoulders.

"I didn't mean to," he mumbled, before he could say anything else.

Wakefield, it seemed, was suspicious anyway. "I guess that was why you left with her instead of staying behind to talk to your old man?"

"You want me to keep up the act, don't you?"

But, thought Henry, what act? This… talking about the final revenge against his father's enemy, knowing his father intended for Henry to kill Abby in the end… was an act, too. It wasn't Henry anymore than when he pretended to write vows to Trish he would never say or talk about good old college days he wishes he could forget.

It was lies, all of it. The only time he ever told the truth was when he was with Abby, and even then he hadn't been able to tell her everything yet. The fact that he had to hide anything at all from her made him feel worse than being a terrible hypocrite ever could.

Maybe it was a good thing that Wakefield ignored the question. Acting as self-righteous as Henry expected him to be now that they were both together on Harper's Island, the man changed the subject by asking his own question of his son: "Do you know what it's like to see you with that girl under Sarah's tree? Under _my _tree?"

Henry found himself unable to answer. He never knew that Sarah Mills was his mother while she was alive and, as many times Wakefield told him so, he couldn't think of her that way. If he did, it only brought feelings of anger and feelings of rejection—feelings that Wakefield festered by dwelling on it constantly—and Henry was broken up enough inside to not want to deal with _those _issues.

Besides, if he could convince himself that Sarah Mills wasn't really his mother, then it was easy to forget that Abby wasn't his half-sister. Not that that mattered to him, of course. He loved her as a sister, sure, but also so much more than that. As a sister, a best friend, a lover… he wanted Abby every way imaginable, just the two of them alone, together forever.

Just like she wanted, too…

Almost as if he knew what his son was thinking, Wakefield said harshly, "She was your mother, too, Henry. Don't you forget."

Henry sighed. This was another discussion he didn't want to have. "I won't, Dad."

"She threw you away. She threw our _family _away. All for that girl."

He wanted to argue that Wakefield's accusation wasn't fair. It wasn't Abby's fault what happened. She hadn't even been born yet. How could she be held accountable for her mother's incredibly heartless and absolutely selfish actions? But he didn't argue. He couldn't.

Wakefield would never accept that, and Henry needed his father's help with _his _plan even more than Wakefield thought he needed Henry's.

The mask he wore for John Wakefield, while different from the one that Trish and Sully and all the others knew, was just as concealing. The way his father talked about Abby made him so angry that he thought his blood was boiling—but he didn't say a word. Instead, gritting his teeth, he changed the subject.

"Everybody came, just like I said they would. I didn't think J.D. was going to show and Marty," he said, careful not to call him "uncle". Twenty-one years had gotten him in the habit, but Wakefield got testy when Henry referred to anyone else as his family, "was late but he sailed with the rest of us."

"He's the one who likes to take night walks?"

"Yes. He always said that he couldn't sleep without taking a walk around the neighborhood first." He didn't mention that his younger (and, he sneered inwardly, by adoption only) brother and him always figured Uncle Marty only took his nighttime strolls to visit some of the female neighbors. That, he decided, was neither here nor there.

"Good. He'll be the first to go."

"That sounds like a plan."

Henry had grown hard by the many years of training in the dark Seattle nights with only his father's urging and a blood-stained knife; in the six years since he learned the truth, Henry had distanced himself away from the sham of the life he knew until he barely felt anything—not excitement at the deed, nor guilt or even remorse—at all while discussing the upcoming murder of his "uncle".

"But," he added, thinking of the only concern he had regarding the man, "if I know Marty, he'll be carrying a bag around with him. A light brown bag. I need it."

"And if he doesn't have it?"

Henry shrugged, though he knew his father couldn't see the action. Then again, he had no idea where his father was hiding out now—for all he knew, Wakefield _could _see him. "I really would like to have it. Maybe it'll be in his room?"

Wakefield's fixation with his revenge didn't extend to curiosity about his prospective victims' belongings. To him, they were already dead; it didn't matter what they had, or didn't have, or even why Henry would want it. So, it was no surprise when he simply said, "I'll make sure you have it."

Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder, making sure that he was still alone. He was and, before he was overhead, he told him, "Thanks, Dad."

There was a pause and then, as if he were waiting, Wakefield said, "I still need something from you, Henry."

"What's that?"

"You promised you'd give me the girl's number. I need that."

Henry's grip on the phone tightened so much that he could've sworn it cracked at the sides from the pressure. He'd forgotten about that particular caveat—for whatever reason he had, Wakefield wanted Abby's phone number to leave her disturbing messages. He didn't pretend to understand, but he knew better than to argue about this. If making crank calls was the extent of his father's contact with Abby, he could let him have that one thing.

Still, he had to ask: "You're not going to talk to her, are you?"

"I have something special in mind for those phone calls," Wakefield said. And, unless Henry was imagining it, he actually sounded like he would relish the moment when it came, too.

Something special, huh? Just what did that mean?

Henry felt guilty, but Wakefield was right. He _had _promised. Who knew? Maybe his father's plan would have an added bonus of spooking Abby so much that she found herself clinging to the safety of his embrace. That thought in mind, Henry smiled to himself as he rattled off the seven digits to Abby's cell phone number. He didn't have to look at his phone for it; he'd memorized it as soon as she got it and gave it to him.

"And you brought the article?" Wakefield asked next, noticeably more satisfied now that Henry had given in and finally given him what he wanted.

"Yes, I did," Henry answered, thinking of the plain manila folder he slipped into his luggage last night. "It's in a folder in my suitcase. I didn't forget."

"Are you going to be able to plant it like I wanted? Where I wanted?"

"Yes," he answered, resigned. He could hear the way his voice sounded almost strangled as his father seemed to nag him. He just hoped it wasn't audible on Wakefield's end.

"Are you sure? I can do it tonight while you have your… _celebration_."

Henry didn't know what was worse: the sneer in his father's voice when he mentioned the first of many wedding activities Trish and the planners had planned for this week, or the idea that he might willingly let Wakefield into Abby's room. If he could help it, he wouldn't let Abby and Wakefield on the same side of the island, let alone let his father tread the same floor as his Abby.

"Don't worry. I'm sure I can sneak away long enough to do it. Though," he confessed, with the hope that maybe he could start to change his father's mind already, "I don't understand why it's so important that we leave it there."

"I told you, Henry. These things have got to be done right. If you want me to leave Abby for last, I want to have some fun with her first."

"Of course. I—"

"Henry?"

He could almost kick himself. He hadn't heard her approaching; his mind on his father's voice and Abby's safety, he disregarded everything around him as he continued the last part of the conversation. But, as her soft voice jerked him out of his reverie, Henry shot his head up and glanced down the hall. There, not too far from him, stood Trish.

"Trish?"

"Henry! There you are!"

He flashed Trish a big grin as she started towards him but quickly, out of the corner of his mouth, he spoke into the receiver: "Listen. I have to go."

Wakefield seemed to understand. "I'll see you tonight then, Henry. Outside that dumpy inn. You'll be there?"

"Okay," Henry agreed, "sure." His head was already whirring with just how he was going to manage meeting his father without Trish getting suspicious. As preoccupied with herself and this wedding as she could be at times, it would be pretty obvious when he wasn't sharing the same bed with her.

"I'll send a message," his father promised.

"Goodbye."

He snapped his flip phone shut with a practiced motion, clearing the name of the vague "UNKNOWN" that had been flashing on the screen. It was an abrupt end to an important conversation but he couldn't risk Trish coming any closer while Wakefield was still talking. She wouldn't recognize the voice, but it might bring up too many questions—questions he couldn't possibly, or even want to answer.

As it was, the first thing out of her mouth when she reached his side and wrapped her arms cozily around his waist was a pointed question: "Who was that?"

Henry slipped his phone carefully into the back pocket of his pants before slipping his arm around her shoulder. It was a perfect fit, but there was no denying the fact that, to him, it still felt horribly _wrong_.

"No one," he said assuredly, recalling his charming smile back to his face. "Just someone who works for me."

* * *

**End Note**: In case you're interested on my interpretation of the scene that took place between Henry and Abby (and, to an extent, Wakefield) underneath the Tree of Woe, you should check out my oneshot fic, _Under the Tree_. I didn't want to rewrite that for this, but that story definitely fits write between whap, part one and whap, part two. I hope you guys liked this chapter - I have to say, I sure enjoyed writing it! - and I should have more coming soon-ish. As always, let me know what you think :)

_- stress, 08.26.09_


	4. whap, part three

**Disclaimer:** The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. Any dialogue from the first episode, "Whap", included is used only to further the story.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

* * *

**iv. whap, part three;**

He waited outside of the door to room number 204, his hand still folded in a loose fist. But he didn't knock again.

J.D. wouldn't answer anyway.

Henry Dunn knew that his younger brother—a _real _Dunn, not another part of the lie—was in there, but it was just as obvious that he wasn't in the mood for company. He didn't need a "do not disturb sign" hung warningly on the door; J.D.'s refusal to speak up when Henry called to him was enough to tell Henry not to waste his time. And maybe he shouldn't even have come by in the first place but, then again, checking in on his brother wasn't really what he had intended to do. He'd only gone to J.D.'s room to see if it was free.

Henry still needed to unload those sedatives from his suitcase.

The sounds of a zipper being tugged and heavy footsteps as they fell across the room belied J.D.'s stubborn silence. He was in there, whether he wanted to address Henry's false niceties or not. And, with his brother holed up in his room, there was nothing else he could do to further his plans just yet. The prescription bottle would have to stay hidden for now. Besides, as much as he probably wanted to, J.D. couldn't stay in there forever.

There was nothing for him to do now, he realized as he let his hand unfold and fall aimlessly back to his side. But at least there could always be time to try again after the welcome dinner Maggie Krell had planned.

Which reminded him…

Henry turned his back on J.D.'s door, straightening his purple tie absently before glancing down at his wrist to check his watch. Maggie had repeatedly told him over and over again during their meeting earlier that afternoon that the dinner would start precisely at seven, with a decorated room for cocktails and dancing available throughout the meal.

A if he could forget. She had only let him and Trish out of her office at all because she had to tend to the cooking staff and make sure the decorations were in place. That, and she wanted the star attractions to have more than enough time to prepare for the affair.

It was just about seven now. Trish had shooed him out of the room they were sharing almost an hour ago so that she could finish getting ready for the night. It hadn't taken him long to change into his dinner clothes and she chided him playfully for moping around the room while she did her hair and make-up. So, for the first time since Meggie had whisked him away from Abby just outside of the Candlewick, he had time to do what he wanted.

But then he couldn't find Abby again…

He'd spent most of that hour waiting for some sign from his father but, to Trish's pleasure, his phone didn't ring again at all that afternoon, or while he was out of the room. There was still no sign of Abby—he could only assume she was also getting ready—and he had no desire to talk to any of the other guests; he would have to make small talk later and he didn't want to test his control so early on. Uncle Marty had already shanghaied him once for a man-to-man bonding chat and he was anxious not to have to do that again, either. Eventually, his restless feet had led him towards J.D.'s room and even that hadn't gone the way he would have liked.

And now, noting the hands of his watch ticking ever closer to seven, he accepted the fact that it was time for him to make his appearance downstairs.

It was all part of the plan. It had been his suggestion to have a wedding _and _for it to take place on Harper's Island. He needed a way to get Abby back to the island. Only a wedding or a funeral would be drastic enough and Henry had no intention of dying anytime soon.

A wedding it would be then. It was so easy to get Trish to agree. He said all the right things, played his part to perfection. A part of him felt bad at how he was using her—he was quite certain he cared about her once upon a time—but the louder, more insistent part reminded him about Abby. It was all for her, the sacrifices and everything. He had to do whatever it took to keep her there.

With him.

_Forever_.

One of the biggest sacrifices he had to make was pretending every minute of every hour of every day that this wedding meant anything at all. But Henry knew what he had to do, what he had to say and how he had to act to make everyone believe that it meant _everything_ to him.

First there was this ridiculous welcome dinner. Then there was the scavenger hunt scheduled for the next day—at least Maggie allowed that he didn't have to take part in _that_ charade—and then the bonfire later that night. Not to mention the bachelor party he knew Sully was planning… Henry felt a little twitch of a grin pull at his lips at that.

Okay, he thought. Maybe it could be a _little_ fun.

* * *

His enthusiasm for the upcoming events lasted for precisely twenty-two minutes.

Between still waiting in earnest for his father's message, worrying when he was going to find time to do what his father had asked him to do, worrying where Abby was _again_ and acting as if he had nothing on his mind whatsoever apart from marrying Trish Wellington in three days… well, it was no wonder that Henry, after Trish excused herself to sit down to a round of girl talk with her friends, found himself alone at the open bar.

Henry Dunn wasn't a big drinker but sometimes… sometimes a man could just think clearer with a glass set before him.

It was 7:23 now. He'd already nibbled at a few hors d'oeuvres, made the rounds once with Trish at his side—he'd even stopped to chat with Sully and Danny for a few minutes. He saw Uncle Marty trying to hit on Trish's friend Chloe, and he watched as Chloe's boyfriend Cal eyed the old man's exploits with an air of childish jealousy about him. Henry even chanced a wave at J.D. when he saw his dark head pop into the room for a second or two… but there was still no Abby.

It was like that morning all over again, wondering where she was and waiting—always waiting. He had the sinking suspicion that her visit to the Tree of Woe might have done her more harm than he initially thought. As he sat there, his drink untouched but so very tempting, Henry got the sudden idea that maybe she snuck out when he wasn't looking.

Gripping the edge of his seat, he blamed himself. He should've kept a closer eye on her. He should've—

—suddenly, as if Henry was one of the victims he stalked under his father's tutelage, he felt someone sneak up behind him. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up; he felt himself straighten, tense and alert. When he sensed the tiny, gentle tap on his shoulder, he was ready for it.

He whirled in his seat but the sight that met him nearly knocked him onto the floor.

It was Abby… but he could hardly believe it. Her hair was no longer restrained and out of her unassumingly beautiful face. Instead, she wore her dark hair long and flowing, nestled around her perfectly shaped shoulders. She had just the right amount of make-up on and just a tease of some lingering floral perfume. And the dress…

Henry had to work hard not to blow his entire plan so early in its stages by losing control and out-and-out ogling her. It was a little red number, both tight and revealing, and one that hugged her slender body and showed off every curve.

He didn't know whether to be absolutely excited to see her in such a dress—she had to have worn it for him, he reasoned—or insanely jealous that his Abby was on display for every other man to see. The jealousy was hard to swallow but, in the end, he managed. She was like a goddess, a vision to behold, and he wasn't going to let his temper get in the way of his enjoying himself at last.

So, rather than demand she go back upstairs and change, he tried to disguise his lust and his desire with a surprised chuckle. "Whoa… look at you," he said, beaming as he did just that. "You look amazing!"

"Yeah?" Abby was unsure, glancing down and checking herself. It was almost as if she didn't believe him—as if she expected he was just telling her so to be nice.

But Henry was adamant. "Yeah!"

"Thanks." He heard it then, the slight slur. It only seemed to get more noticeable as she began to ramble adorably in that assured way she had. She was much more confident, he noticed, once the subject had changed from her appearance.

"That's good, 'cause I've decided I'm going to have fun tonight," Abby told him, waving her hand absently as she tried to make him—or her, he wasn't sure—feel better about this evening (and, perhaps, the week). "No, no, no, no… strike that," she amended, "I'm going to have fun this whole _week _and, anything you need, I got your back. You… you don't even have to ask."

There was one thing, however, that Henry found himself asking. With a cocked eyebrow and "big brother" overtones to his voice, he said, "Have you been drinking?"

"A little bit," she admitted sheepishly. She held her thumb and her forefinger about an inch apart, showing him how much she might have drunk before coming down to the dinner.

"A little bit?" he asked knowingly. Mimicking her gesture, Henry held up his own hand, increasing the gap between his two fingers until there were at least three inches keeping them apart. That, he decided, seemed more reasonable for her mildly intoxicated state.

And he had to wonder: why in the world would Abby have done that?

She agreed with an impish smile and a small laugh. Matching his gesture, admitting to his accusation, Abby didn't flinch away from the truth. Henry was reminded of the time when he first watched Abby get drunk, back when they were kids and he spent his summers on the island. A surge of protection had come over him then, almost a brotherly reaction to make sure she was safe when she couldn't herself.

He felt the same now. An intoxicated Abby could be trouble. He would have to keep an even closer eye on her to make sure she stayed out of it. Unable to control his desire to protect her—and his desire to physically hold her close—Henry joined in with her laughter as he slung his arm over her shoulder. It was back around her where it belonged.

Maybe feeling guilty for coming to the room already a little tipsy, Abby ordered a club soda from the bartender. Henry echoed her order, glad he hadn't touched the drink in front of him. With her in this state, he needed to be even more alert. More sober. More aware.

Henry was aware just how close they were sitting and just how tempting she looked just then…

It was fitting, he mused as he subtly let his eyes linger on the daring cut of her dress, that she had chose to wear red. Trish, all dolled up in blue, was dead to him; his feelings for her, any he ever had, had gone cold. But Abby… if there was one thing he could be absolutely certain of it was that, as long as he lived, the torch he held onto in her name would never die. The fire, as it were, would forever burn…

* * *

The evening was progressing nicely. Just knowing that Abby was near was enough to keep him calm. He didn't even mind that, in order to keep up appearances, Trish was glued to his side once again; after a short period of time where he lost her, she'd found him and hadn't left him since. Dinner had been served and coffee and cocktails were abundant. The music had slowed as the night went on until he found himself swaying slowly in time to a lulling melody.

Trish, as always, was a lovely dancer. Light on her feet, she let him lead though even Henry knew that it was her hold that kept them dancing cozily to the music. They'd done this a hundred times—maybe a thousand—through the years, from summer dances on the island when they were kids to those ritzy parties at the Wellington's country club that Trish's family dragged them to.

He kept his eyes closed as they danced. In that way, it was easy for him to pretend that the girl in his arms was another. Trish felt different, she carried herself in an entirely different way and even the _smell_ of her wasn't the same. But when Abby occupied his thoughts almost all the time, it wasn't difficult to wish that everyone was her—that, or that there was no one left in his world but him and her.

Henry bit back a small smile when he realized that, if everything went according to his plan, that would be a reality before long…

When the song ended, he reluctantly opened his eyes. He was surprised to see that, while she pressed her body up against his, there was something _distant _about Trish. Wordlessly he asked her what was wrong but, with a smile as fake as his own, she shook her head and slipped out of his loose hold.

Partly confused by her strange actions, and partly relieved that he wouldn't have to find an excuse to slip away again, Henry let her go.

As soon as she was out of his sight—once again: out of sight, out of mind—he turned his thoughts back to the issue at hand. His father's insistent voice echoing in his ear, replaying their conversation over again, Henry knew he was wasting precious time. Everything had to be done just _so_… and he knew Wakefield well enough to know that his condition, his request, was not to be denied.

He'd given it much thought when he was drifting lazily across the dance floor with Trish and he came up with a plan that could possibly work. Casting his eyes over the room, he noticed two things: that J.D. was, as he expected, nowhere to be found and that Abby was sitting at a table with two of Trish's girlfriends.

Though he could only see her back, it was easy for him to tell that the blonde and the brunette sitting across from her made her uncomfortable. Amid all the noise, he could make out her nervous laughter and, like a knight off to rescue his lady, Henry made a beeline straight for their table.

His mind was hard at work. Acting a little more impulsively than he would have liked—where Abby was concerned, careful wasn't an option sometimes—he had precious few seconds to figure out how to make this scene work to his advantage. He needed Abby away from the dinner, away from the inn, long enough for him to plant the article he brought with him.

There was only way he could think to get her to do it without sending her off with someone. He had to send her off _after_ someone. And, considering he knew her personality better than anyone else's, knew her reactions and her motivations, Henry was absolutely certain that, if he asked her to, she would do anything for him.

Sometimes, he marveled as he drew up right behind her, he didn't even have to ask her...

Henry didn't hear what the girls had been talking about before he arrived but, from the expressions of Beth and Lucy's faces, he had a pretty good hunch it was _him_. Ignoring that suspicion, he interrupted their chat with a pleasant grin and feigned excitement in his voice:

"Hey! Everybody having fun?"

His fingers pressed comfortably into the contours of Abby's shoulders; he couldn't help himself and it made him glad that she relaxed under the weight of his hands. He listened politely to their meaningless responses to his question before he came out with the one he meant to ask: "Has anyone seen J.D.?"

Part of Abby's charm was just how well he understood her, just how well he could anticipate her reactions to a given situation. His expectations were proven right when, immediately, she stood up from her seat. "I'm on it."

"No… wait," Henry protested, inwardly pleased that she'd reacted in such a way… even if his hands already missed the touch of her bare skin. But he couldn't allow her to suspect he was pleased so, quickly, he argued, "That's not why I asked."

"I know. Go find that fiancée of yours and let me worry about finding your brother."

"Oh, hey, you might want to start at—"

"—the Cannery. I'm on it!"

And, with a determined expression on her beautiful face, she was already scurrying across the room, towards the exit.

Henry watched with a satisfied expression that he still knew Abby well enough to get her to do what he needed to do, act how he wanted her to act, without doing nothing more than exploiting her loyalty—her _feelings_—for him. He didn't think it of as manipulation; he just thought of it as two people who loved each other working together.

He waited until she had left, counted to fifteen, and then nodded at Lucy and Beth. Letting them think he was either going off in search of J.D. or Trish—he didn't care what they thought, and doubted they even noticed him leaving the room—he strode out into the empty halls of the Candlewick. His face twisted into a look of purpose, no one stopped him as he went and, as luck would have it, he ran into the one person he wanted to see almost right away.

"Maggie!"

"Henry?" She had been smiling to herself but, when she caught sight of him coming towards her, the smile wavered. She looked concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"Have you seen Abby?"

He hadn't really expected to run into Maggie the moment he escaped the din of the ongoing welcome dinner. What if Maggie _had_ seen Abby? She hadn't been gone that long yet, and his quickly hatched plan would never work if—

Maggie shook her head. "I'm sorry, Henry. I haven't seen her since she arrived."

Henry had to work hard to sound disappointed when all he felt was relief. "Ah… that's not good."

"What's the matter?"

"I got a gift for Trish for tonight and Abby said she'd hold it in her room for me," he lied smoothly. The innkeeper was already nodding her understanding. Sometimes it was just _too _easy. "I was supposed to go up and get it before the dinner but… you know how it is, with all the wedding stuff… I forgot. And I really wanted to get it now… but I can't seem to find her."

"Say no more, Henry," Maggie said, holding her hand up, cutting off any more of his explanation. It wasn't necessary—she'd bought his story, hook, line and sinker. "Todd's at the desk tonight. You tell him from me that he's to give you a key for Abby's room. Just make sure to return it when you're done, alright?"

"Maggie, you're the best," he said gratefully, clapping the palm of his hand against her hearty shoulder. He shot her one of his boyishly charming grins—he was glad to see it made her a little flustered as she patted her curly dark hair—and was gone without another word.

Henry headed straight to the front desk where a young local boy of about seventeen was leaning against the counter with a bored expression on his face. He wore a name badge that said he was the Todd Maggie had sent him to see. With a kind inflection in a quick voice, Henry gave the boy Maggie's message and Abby's full name.

The boy nodded, fiddled around at a computer for a few moments—Henry had to restrain himself from tapping his foot impatiently against the floor—before turning his back on the desk. He couldn't see what Todd was doing back there but, after a few more terse moments, he turned back with a key to room number 209 in his hand.

After thanking the boy and choosing to ignore the sullen way the boy returned his gratitude with a surly shrug, Henry took to the stairs. He made a quick stop at his and Trish's room to retrieve the manila folder he had stowed so carefully in his suitcase and grab the tape he would need.

Maggie had booked the entire Candlewick Inn for his and Trish's wedding; because of that, the guests weren't scattered across the whole inn. Searching for her room, Henry found himself walking down the same hall he'd been down before, visiting J.D.'s room. She was only a few rooms over and across the way: room 209.

He didn't stay outside the door for long. Like a man on a mission, Henry quickly turned the key and let himself inside.

Abby's room was dark and he didn't feel right in turning on the lights. Not that he was afraid anyone would notice, but because he felt like it would be an invasion of her privacy. He was positive she wouldn't mind his being in there if she did know—well, he conceded, maybe she would if she knew _why_ he was in there now—but there was a definite line that Henry wasn't ready to cross just yet.

The door closed with a small _snick-_ing noise behind him. He paused for only a moment, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe it was because he knew this room would be hers for the next few days, but there was just something unmistakably _Abby _about it. It even smelled like his memories of her—a mix of vanilla, freshly cut grass and sickly sweet summer nights. He felt her in the air, and he had the silly urge to suddenly lie down on her bed.

But he didn't. He didn't have the time to spare. Henry had a job to do and, as much as he didn't want to do it, he gave himself a quick shake and opened the folder. Carefully, he removed the newspaper cutting from its place.

Henry didn't need any light to see what the article said; he'd already memorized the words just as he had the image of the woman burned into his memory. "Wakefield Murders Sheriff's Wife in Killing Rampage"… the picture of Sarah Mills taken shortly before her death… he remembered it all and, for a moment, he wished he didn't have to remind Abby of any of it.

She didn't deserve to be reminded, but he made a promise. Besides, what was a little scare compared to the gift of his making sure he saved her life in the end?

Working quickly—he'd already lingered in the room too long—Henry tore two pieces of tape of the roll he'd grabbed and folded them over. He stuck them methodically to the back, in opposing corners, before slapping the article in the center of the mirror; the reflection caught the sliver of light from out the window, making it a fitting place for Wakefield's memento.

He couldn't tell if he'd hung it straight in the darkness but decided that it didn't really matter. He'd done what his father had asked of him—he'd upheld his part of the bargain and he'd kept Wakefield away from Abby. Not bad for a few minutes work.

Tucking the tape in his suit jacket pocket, Henry took one last deep breath before slipping quietly back out the door. Now that he was done, he felt both relief and pride at a job well done. There was no worry that his act would be discovered. If he knew Abby, and he knew he did, then she would never tell anyone—not even him, he noted with a grimace—of what she would discover in her room later that night. She would brush it off, upset though she would pretend not to be, and try her best to forget that it had ever happened.

And then no one would know it had.

He played with the key ring, reveling in the solitude of the empty hallway. There was one thing that Henry had already given up when he agreed to this weeklong affair and that was anytime alone. He would take whatever peace he could get, even if it was at the expense of others.

Glancing down at Abby's room key, Henry decided that he wasn't going to return it back to Todd at the front desk. He doubted anyone would remember he asked for it in the morning and, if they had, he was confident he could have an excuse at the ready if they asked. The key might come in handy—and he wasn't too sure he liked the idea of a spare key to Abby's room being anywhere else than in his possession.

Just as Henry was tucking the key securely in his pants pocket, resigned to the fact that it was about time he returned to the welcome dinner, he felt the familiar sensation of his phone vibrating. His heart nearly jumped into his throat. Was his father finally contacting him? Had he already killed his first victim on the island?

Unprepared for the rumbling, he fumbled with his fingers for a few seconds before he could get the phone out. But, when he had, he was surprised to see what the screen read. Instead of the "UNKNOWN" that always heralded one of Wakefield's calls, there were nine digits splayed across the front. It was a phone number.

Henry frowned, hesitant to answer the phone. The number that flashed wasn't a familiar one, but the area code was. It was a local number.

Someone from the island was calling him.

* * *

**End Note**: Goodness, that was another hefty one. I hope you guys don't mind the length - I have the first few chapters plotted to specific points and, sometimes, the words just run away with themselves. On the plus side, though, there's only one more chapter left that's set during the first episode and then I get to move onto the second episode. I think my poor DVR will finally be glad to have "Crackle" played repeatedly instead of "Whap", heh. So, yes, let me know what you think... and I hope to have another chapter out fairly soon! Writing poor Henry is just so much fun, I can barely contain myself ;)

_- stress, 08.30.09_


	5. whap, part four

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. Any dialogue from the first episode, "Whap", included is used only to further the story.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

* * *

**v. whap, part four;**

The dessert portion of the welcome dinner was beginning to wind down when he stopped back at the room; still, there was dancing and drinking and good times all around for those who weren't ready to call it a night yet.

Henry slipped in and back out again unnoticed. Trish had reappeared from wherever she had gone and was busy acting the part of the hostess once more, mingling and keeping the guests that remained entertained. She didn't see it when he waved to her and he didn't stay long enough to try to get her attention a second time.

He wanted to be outside already for when his brother arrived.

With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a disapproving frown twisting his handsome features, he stepped out front and let the late summer breeze blow across his face. But even the brisk, salty air wasn't enough to cool his anger or slow his feverish breath. His hands clenched into tight fists at his side, he had to restrain himself from marching towards the Cannery and hauling J.D. out by his scruff.

Henry Dunn was too used to being the vigilant older brother to even think of it as an act anymore.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered if his father was lurking in the shadows or on the nearby grounds before shoving that thought roughly to the side. There were more important things to worry about just then—like how he was going to keep his chosen scapegoat out of the local holding cells. Besides, Wakefield was probably busy himself, tending to his own convoluted plans of revenge. It wasn't for nothing, he figured, that he hadn't heard from his father all night.

No, only one call had come through on his phone. Standing just outside of Abby's room, his cell phone rung and a strange number instead of a name had popped up. But he didn't recognize it, or the equally gruff voice on the other end that told him that the sheriff had J.D. in custody for his part in a bar fight.

It was Sherriff Mills—Abby's dad—who called him. Listening intently, Henry knew exactly who he was speaking with partway through the conversation. He knew his mannerisms, the way Charlie could make everything sound like bad news (even when it was); as such, it was easy to wheedle the man into letting J.D. return to the Candlewick that night over spending the evening in jail as a lesson.

Henry would watch over J.D. and the sheriff wouldn't have to deal with the sort of trouble that seemed to follow his black cloud of a brother around. It was no surprise to hear Charlie agree—Henry, for being a summer guy, knew enough about the island's local politics to understand that J.D. would've been the only one blamed at all. It was just easier for old Charlie to drop J.D. and his attitude off at the inn and wash his hands of the boy.

Which was how Henry found himself waiting outside for J.D. and worrying over Abby again…

He didn't know what was worse: that J.D. had been picking fights so soon after arriving on Harper's Island or that Henry had purposely sent Abby after him. Charlie hadn't mentioned anything about his daughter being at the Cannery when the fight broke out and Henry, being careful, hadn't asked.

As it turned out, he didn't need to. Abby, just like he knew she would, had followed his earlier instructions to the letter: she followed J.D. to the Cannery and, Henry saw as the sheriff's truck pulled up in front of the Candlewick, she had followed him back.

Henry let out a small sigh of relief when Charlie killed the engine and parked the truck. Despite the dark of night, he could make out J.D. sitting in the back. Abby, looking none to happy at the arrangement, was next to her father in the front.

He wanted to go to her first, to rescue her from the company of her father, but the rational part of him only just remembered that he needed to think with his head and not with his heart. He was watching out for J.D., not Abby—well, as far as anyone else knew, he was. So, when J.D. jumped out of the backseat and raced towards the steps, Henry had no choice but to reluctantly turn his attention away from the truck. J.D., for being Henry's adopted brother, was enough like Henry in his own way that there was a certain case for nature versus nurture in their relationship. Just then, he wanted as much to do with his brother as Henry wanted to do with him.

He tried to talk to him but his half-hearted attempts didn't even slow J.D. down. Oh, well. At least he _did_ try…

Abby was still sitting next to Charlie, ramrod straight and staring ahead of her. From his place at the bottom of the stairs, Henry could see the uncomfortable expression she wore. It pained him to see her look that way. Who was Charlie Mills anyway, to waltz back into her life and make her frown like that? He wasn't there for all of the birthdays and the Christmases—_Henry_ was. He'd worked hard over the last seven years to get Abby to smile again and he wasn't about to sit back and watch her good-for-nothing father undo everything he'd done for her.

But what could he do? And how much did Charlie really know? Wakefield suspected the dogged sheriff thought he was still alive—did he? Just how much could Henry risk without bringing Abby's father into the mix before he was due to die?

The answer, Henry thought bitterly, was not much. Over the years Wakefield had groomed him to hate Charlie Mills more than anyone else—except maybe Abby, but Henry never managed to do _that_—in the world. At that moment, with the sheriff keeping Abby with him instead of letting her go to Henry, he finally began to think that his father just might've got it right.

Struggling to keep his anger in check, he contented himself with waiting earnestly for Abby to emerge from the truck. If only he could talk to her, touch her, breathe her in… then, he was sure, everything would be all right.

There was so much he wanted to ask her, so much he wanted to say, but, when he saw the expression on her face as she climbed out of the front seat, Henry decided to keep it to himself. His first priority was, as always, to tend to Abby—any sort of answers or explanations could wait.

Abby, it seemed, _wanted_ to explain it all to him. A look of relief flashed across her face as soon as she spied Henry waiting for her on the stairs, but it was short-lived. Guilt quickly replaced it and, without any prodding from Henry, she jumped into a hurried explanation of what happened after she left the Candlewick. Something about finding J.D. nursing a drink alone and a quick game of pool that distracted her from her task.

It had all happened so fast, she confessed, and, before she knew it, J.D. and Shane Pierce had gotten into it—first exchanging words and then exchanging blows. Henry had to swallow his scowl at that. Shane… he should've known. In the end, he discovered, it had taken Abby stepping into the middle of the fight, brandishing her pool stick like a weapon, to break it; her father and his sheriff's badge had kept them from starting the fight up again.

As she was explaining, her voice tired and regret coloring every word, Henry had casually slung his arm comfortingly around her shoulder. She didn't shrug it off and he used his hold to steer her past the dining room and towards an empty sitting room he remembered seeing earlier.

He wanted privacy. It was only becoming all too noticeable to him now that she was near again how much he craved her company. She was like a drug to him, keeping him sane. Henry was desperate for some time alone with her. Let her think he wanted to discuss her evening in detail… he didn't care _what_ they talked about just as long as they had a few precious stolen moments together.

It was a small room that he had found, cozy, with a lively fire dancing in the grate. It could almost be romantic, Henry decided as he ushered her in and led her towards a pair of matching leather chairs; he hoped his actions weren't so obvious but, if they were, Abby didn't say. She also didn't sit down in her given seat, choosing instead to fold her legs underneath the short skirt of her dress as she sank down on the floor.

Henry made a quick sweep of the room, letting Abby have a few seconds to herself to gather her thoughts. She stared distantly into the flickering flames and he was reluctant to leave her alone, even for a moment. Poking his head out into the hall, he caught sight of the back of a pair of matching blonde heads—Cal and Chloe, he figured—disappearing down the way.

The dinner must be over, he thought. Trish would be looking for him. He didn't care about that, either. She could keep looking if she wanted to—he was where he needed to be now.

Entering silently back into the sitting room, he saw that Abby was still resting where he had left her. She hadn't moved. Her dark eyes were shadows, looking everywhere and anywhere but up at him. There was no denying how the evening's events had affected her, and Henry knew that the only way to bring her impish smile back to her lovely face was to shoulder the blame himself.

He cleared his throat and slowly approached the fireplace. His reappearance gave her a start but he pretended not to notice as he leaned forward, resting his arms against the back of the opposing chair. Then, her attention on him where it belonged, he said, "I feel like I owe you an apology."

"For what?" she asked, puzzled.

"If I didn't have you out there, looking for J.D, you never would have run into your dad like that."

Henry meant his apology; from the bottom of his heart, he meant it. The last thing he ever wanted to do—if, of course, he could help it—was make Abby feel even the least bit uncomfortable. Putting her into a situation where she had to confront her dad had done this to her. She didn't have a good relationship with Charlie Mills—not like Henry had with his father—and he felt partly responsible for that, too. After all, it _was_ Wakefield's actions seven years ago that forged the division between Abby and her dad. Nothing he could do or say would repair that; Henry wasn't even sure he'd want to if he could.

Abby, too good to let Henry take the blame, just shook her head. "We both knew that part of me coming home was dealing with my dad," she told him. And then, before he could say anything else, she looked away and murmured, "I feel like I didn't do a very good job of watching your back tonight."

He heard the apology in her voice and he couldn't keep back the awe he felt. Everything about her inspired some level of amazement in Henry but her actions that night were impressive. "Are you kidding me?" he asked, taking the opportunity to move in front of the chair and sit across from her on the floor. "You broke up a bar fight with a pool cue!"

But she was insistent. The way she saw it, everything that happened that night was her fault and she wasn't about to let him talk her out of it. "Maybe, if I wasn't playing pool, there wouldn't have been a fight."

Henry could see what she was doing. Though obviously still wallowing in having had to face her dad for the first time since he did the unthinkable and shipped her away from the island, Abby was still loyal enough to try to save the blame from falling on the shoulders of the one person who really deserved it: J.D.

He sighed. "C'mon. You know J.D. He's going to do what he wants," he reminded her gently. A sudden inspiration hit him then and Henry saw a way to turn this debacle of an evening to his advantage. He may not have been able to plant the sedatives yet but he could still plant the seeds of doubt about his brother. "I'm just afraid that one of these days he's going to do something a whole lot worse than pick a fight."

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. He felt his heart start beating rapidly and wished he was more daring; he wanted nothing more than to close the small gap that existed between them. That near he could see the earnestness in her eyes as she hurriedly began to defend Henry's brother. Sweet, she called him. Abby was just too _good_.

Henry felt his earlier anger towards J.D. melt away under the shine of her words. If she could forgive him for getting her into such a situation, then Henry could too.

For now.

Besides, there was something else he wanted to ask. Ever since he first met Abby outside and she had launched into detail about what had happened down at the Cannery, there was one small thing that had been nagging at him… one small detail that she seemed to gloss over in her rush to finish her story.

Trying hard not to sound too curious—and suspecting that he failed miserably—Henry leaned forward slightly and asked, "Who were you playing pool with?"

This time, when she met his searching eyes, Abby looked a little like a deer caught in headlights. And then he understood. Henry knew exactly why she'd danced around the subject; he knew exactly who had the power to make Abby forget that she was out there, helping Henry.

He didn't need her sheepish smile, or the apologetic way she confessed his name.

Jimmy Mance… how could he have forgotten?

* * *

An hour later and Henry still couldn't get the name out of his head. _Jimmy_. Abby had been playing pool with _Jimmy_.

He tried not to obsess over it, but he couldn't help it. So taken aback by her admission, he had left her alone in the sitting room almost immediately. He had to. He didn't trust himself to be around Abby, and not because he was afraid of how he might react towards her. He wasn't. Henry knew he could never hurt Abby. But Jimmy… he was absolutely terrified he might give himself away and his intentions in those terse moments that followed.

Just the mere mention of the local fisherman caused his blood to boil. He had to stop himself from acting rashly and adding another body to that night's work. It wouldn't be prudent if he followed through on his desires but it _would_ be satisfying; if he acted on his jealousy, he would only be serving his own immediate interests and not those of the overall scheme.

He didn't, though, managing to catch himself just in time. Instead, he made poor excuses and fled from her, returning to his second best because there was nowhere else for him to go.

Trish was in their room when he entered it, mad eyes tucked behind a carefully composed façade. Sitting on their bed, fiddling with the pearls looped around her neck, she greeted him with an adoring smile and a surprised hello. He quickly silenced her with a hungry kiss. Trish melted into his slightly trembling arms at once.

That was the end of his control. Their clothes seemed to vanish before the luxurious bed groaned under their combined weight. For Henry, there were no second thoughts this time. It wasn't part of his act—he needed to be loved…until remorse set in and he suddenly realized what (who) he was doing.

He didn't stop.

Trish was beautiful, of course. And she loved him. He'd have to be crazy—or crazier than he already was, granted—not to want to spend every night in her bed, possessing her the way he wouldn't let anyone else. She belonged to him and, despite his intense devotion to another woman, he liked it that way. In fact, Trish's only flaw was that she _wasn't _Abby Mills… but, for Henry, that would always be enough.

Still, he felt betrayed by Abby's actions. In a fit of angry heat, he found himself taking solace in Trish's embrace. This time, unlike many times before, he kept his eyes wide open purposely. He wanted to see her face twisted in the throes of passion; he wanted to see that he could have that effect on a woman—even if it wasn't the one woman he wanted.

It was as if he was getting revenge for Abby's night with Jimmy by sleeping with Trish. No one would ever know it, no one but him, but it did make Henry feel a little better. So much so that, when Trish moaned loudly before embarrassment caught up with her and she buried her face in his bare chest, he was able to let out a small, amused chuckle and an encouraging remark.

Breathing heavily, their limbs entwined, he murmured his obligatory I-love-you's and smiled when she responded in kind. He was pretty pleased with himself. Almost content, even. He barely noticed it when Trish untangled herself out from the covers and his body, covering herself up in a way that seemed unnecessary as she scurried off to the bathroom, telling him that she would be right back.

Henry immediately missed her warmth and snuggled underneath the comforter. As he did, he tried to get his breathing—and the remains of his lingering temper—back under control; the release that Trish lent him had been enough to assuage much of the anger he had felt. In fact, as he lay back in the bed and stared up at the ceiling, Henry thought generously that he might forgive Abby for her quick game of pool with an old (boy)friend.

Until, only a split second later, he heard the shrill ringing of a nearby phone. He wondered whose it was. It couldn't be his, seeing how he purposely left it on vibrate. He turned his head towards the sound, quickly realizing that Trish had left her cell phone out on the nightstand on his side of the bed. Thinking nothing of it, Henry reached out and picked it up.

As he trained his eyes on the screen, he heard Trish call out from the shower stall. Her voice echoed, the running water nearly drowning it out, but still Henry heard her say, "Hey, honey? I was thinking… um… maybe we should get separate rooms from now on. That way the night of our wedding can be special."

He didn't answer her right away, pausing for a beat as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing. Henry only just managed to tear his eyes away from the phone as it was. It never even occurred to him to answer it.

For the first time in he didn't know how long, his thoughts weren't completely occupied by Abby. Running Trish's casual suggestion through his mind, glancing at the pixels bearing that smarmy bastard's name… Henry didn't understand.

Why was Hunter Jennings calling Trish?

And why the hell did Trish want her own privacy _now_?

It was a possessive urge that flooded through him, a desire to hang on to what he perceived to be his. No matter that he loved Abby and that every minute he spent with Trish was an elaborate lie… Trish Wellington was his and would be his until the unfortunate day she had to die. He didn't need Hunter Jennings coming along now—much like he had done three years ago—and messing everything up for him.

Not now. Not when Henry was _so_ close.

He didn't say anything to Trish about the phone call, not when it continued to ring or when it stopped suddenly. Though, behind the mask, he burned, Henry Dunn was the doting fiancé. He made his pleasant, noncommittal remark—"Whatever you want, sweetheart"—and carefully placed her cell phone on the nightstand.

Already a plan was forming. If there was one thing being a Wakefield had taught him it was how to evolve an ever-changing plan. Nothing was ever set in stone. He had to improvise, working with whatever he had. And, right now, what he had was a hatred of the two men who held any sort of sway over his girls.

Besides, he had to admit, Trish wasn't the only one getting calls and messages that she didn't want to share…

While she lingered in the bathroom, washing up and getting ready for bed, Henry's jealous musing and undeniable fury were suddenly interrupted by the muffled vibrating that came from the floor. Immediately he remembered the promise of his father contacting him later that night. That quick, short rumble had to be the sound of John Wakefield coming through.

Henry rolled over once before leaning over the side of the bed. Grabbing his pants, he carefully reached into the pocket and pulled out his phone. The front showed that he had received one text message; flicking it open, he saw that it was from that same "UNKNOWN" caller.

_Dad_.

He read the two words that made up the message—_I'm here—_before letting his phone close with a near silent _click_. The water in the bathroom was stilling running. There was no sign of Trish coming back to bed anytime soon. This was the perfect opportunity to talk to his father and find out just how the night had furthered their plans.

Jumping out of the bed, Henry hurriedly gathered all of his hastily shed clothing from off of the floor. He began to pull each piece back on as he called out to her. "Trish?"

When she didn't answer, he tried again. "Trish!"

Most likely hearing the urgency in his tone, she turned the shower water off. She stuck her head out from behind the shower curtain. "Yes?"

"You thirsty?" he asked, trying his best to keep his voice calm. The last thing he needed was for Trish to wonder why, all of a sudden, he was asking her such a trivial question.

She hesitated, probably wondering that very thing, before she answered, "A little. Why?"

"I'm going to go get some ice," Henry lied, already dressed. He looked around for his socks—he didn't even remember taking them off—and, not finding them, he exhaled and reached down for her shoes. Setting them before him as he sat back down on the disheveled bed, he mirrored her words from only a few minutes ago: "I'll be right back."

The water turned back on as she called back to him, "Okay, honey. I'll be waiting."

If there was a promise or another suggestion in her yell, Henry ignored it. Without another word, he slipped his bare feet into his shoes and, pausing to grab an ice bucket—these things had to be done right, after all—he quickly escaped back into the (thankfully) empty hall.

His father was waiting for him.

* * *

**End Note**: I've been waiting to do this chapter since I started this thing if only because I wanted to acknowledge something that caught my attention the first time I ever saw this episode. I absolutely adored the way that Henry, out of nowhere, asked Abby who she was playing with. He had such a strange way of asking her - of course it makes sense now - and I couldn't wait to put my own spin on it. I thought it was great how the editors let the scene end without her answer and I decided to do the same thing. I just had fun with his reaction ;) Hope you guys liked it! Keep any eye out for the next one - if Henry spent his whole first day on Harper's Island waiting for Wakefield's message, it should be fun when they actually meet... Heh.

_- stress, 09.03.09_


	6. interlude

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

* * *

**vi. interlude;**

All was quiet in the Candlewick Inn, content and serene. There was that stuffed, muffled quality to the air that all hotels and hostels carried which served to remind their lodgers that they weren't home. For some it was better than home and the silence was welcome; for others, the relative normalcy and solitude inherent to a small town, cozy inn could drive a man absolutely mad.

If, of course, he wasn't already mad to begin with…

With a sureness to his step and a friendly smile in place in case he met a fellow nighttime walker, Henry strode confidently through the empty halls. He ditched the ice bucket the first chance he got, remembering to pick it up later and return with it filled when his meeting was done. The less opportunity he gave Trish to question anything, the better.

He didn't meet anyone else until he reached the lobby. The local boy Todd was gone for the night; a blue-haired old biddy had taken his place behind the desk. Henry offered her a congenial wave as he headed past her, straight for the exit. Rather than stop him to ask where he was going so late or even stalling him for a quick chat, the old woman patted her wrinkled cheeks, flustered, before she giving him a small, flapping sort of wave in return.

A little friendliness and a charming smile, he found, really went a long way with getting him everything he ever wanted. It didn't go by unnoticed that, in her eagerness to wave back at the good looking young man, no one had asked him for Abby's key.

Henry Dunn never walked around with his nose in the air. He left that to the Thomas Wellingtons of the world.

Though it had only been an hour or two since he was outside earlier, the temperature seemed to have cooled; that, or his anger was what had kept him warm when he stood on the same steps before, waiting for J.D.. He ignored the chills, running down the stairs with his hands hanging loosely at his side. Henry didn't even bother looking around the front, turning immediately towards the back entrance. If the message he received was to be believed and his father _was_ there, there was no way that John Wakefield would be waiting out front.

It was very dark towards the back entrance, an inky black that enveloped his entire body as he left the safety of the front lights behind him—which was why he chose to follow that path. Clouds rolled across the sky, hiding the moon's glow. His eyes, unused to the absolute emptiness that came with such a dark night, would be worthless until they finally adjusted. Until then he would have to rely on his other senses.

Like his hearing, for one.

Cocking his head to the side and listening intently, Henry heard the slight snapping of a twig underneath a heavy boot. He immediately turned in the direction of the sound. Like an animal, he stood tensed, waiting for another noise for him to pinpoint.

A familiar whisper, an almost hiss, came first:

"Henry."

He knew better than to call out his father's name in response. Screwing up his eyes, squinting in the darkness, he searched for Wakefield. On the edge of the property, just beyond the Candlewick's grounds, Henry thought he might've seen a flash of… of _something_. Assuming it had to be Wakefield—he knew that voice—he crept forward until a sliver of moonlight snuck out from behind the clouds and glinted off of a button on the man's coat. And then he was sure.

It_ was_ his dad.

"You're here," he breathed, relief underlying his low voice. Henry didn't know what he would've done if the man hadn't been his father—as much as he might've regretted the rashness of the action, the folded knife he kept tucked in his pocket most of the time just might have been necessary.

"You kept me waiting," Wakefield accused. His voice, still gruff and as low as Henry's, had a dangerous edge to it that was unmistakable.

"Sorry," Henry said automatically. There was something about his father's short, clipped responses that always made him feel like a child being scolded. John Wakefield made up for lost time, acting the part of a disappointed parent whenever Henry did something he didn't like or particularly agree with. The arguments they had over Abby before Henry finally caught on and just stopped arguing were worse than any of the temper tantrums he'd had as a kid. "Were you waiting long?"

"Long enough."

"Oh."

He paused there, deciding against any long explanations for his tardiness. His father didn't need to know what didn't concern him; besides, Henry had the sinking suspicion that Wakefield knew far more than he wanted him to.

But, Henry reminded himself, not _everything_…

Wakefield, it seemed, didn't expect an explanation. With a quick, furtive glance and a jerky motion he picked up during his time in prison, he gestured for his son to follow him towards the trees that bordered the property on the far edge. Without even a second thought, Henry crept quietly behind him. Wakefield slipped silently into the darkness as Henry stayed right on his tail. The irony didn't escape him that he trusted his life with a known serial killer far more than those who considered themselves his friends.

Henry was led into the trees, but not so deep that he couldn't make out the back of the Candlewick Inn—shadowed black in the even blacker night—in the distance. But it _was_ far enough away that there was no chance that they could be overheard. He was sure that he hadn't been followed and Wakefield was certainly experienced enough to slip around the island undetected.

Wakefield stopped in the middle of a particular grove of trees; it was almost as if he was searching for it. He glanced at each tree in turn before selecting one and leaning up against it. He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

Henry took the hint. Keeping his voice low if only to keep the discussion serious, he asked, "How did it go?"

"I just finished up."

That much, Henry thought, was obvious—but he didn't say it out loud. He just nodded his understanding. His eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the dark; even so, it wasn't easy to tell if there was any sign of Wakefield's work splashed across his long coat. Henry doubted it, though. It was one part of the job he never could manage himself, slashing a victim without getting any spilt blood on him. It was one skill he envied of his father. Henry could never figure how Wakefield stayed so clean.

"With Un— with Marty?" He almost slipped, he almost called him "uncle" but he caught himself just in time.

"With the pieces of him," Wakefield tossed back, a primal smile like a gash in his face. This close, Henry could make out his father's features—and almost wished he couldn't. Personally, he couldn't see the resemblance.

Then he nodded again, purposely ignoring the tiniest of twinges that tugged at his gut. It was one thing to know that Uncle Marty was the first real sacrifice he had to make, that Marty Dunn's death would be the first price he had to pay… it was another thing entirely to hear his father talk so casually about it, actually relishing the murder. He didn't like it. Though he knew it made him a hypocrite, the way Wakefield spoke of murder made him extremely uncomfortable.

With the exception of his training—and even then there was method behind the madness—Henry killed for the sake of advancing his aims. Wakefield, he knew, only killed out of a twisted, warped desire to be a predator and to watch the light go out of his victim's eyes as they succumbed to his viciousness. He blamed it on revenge but, as Henry knew all too well, there were limits on revenge.

After all, he hadn't killed Jimmy last night and, in his opinion, that would have been the epitome of revenge...

Pushing that thought away—thinking of Jimmy just made him angry—he let his mind fall back on Uncle Marty. The terrible tug came again and he knew that, if it wasn't quite guilt, it was close enough. Remorse, maybe. He actually felt a little _sorry_ that he had called for the death of a man who had always been there for him.

Henry thought he was ready for this but, suddenly, he wasn't so sure anymore.

Was he ready to play God, to hand over his family and friends and watch them get picked off one by one all because he wanted something he'd never had?

All Henry Wakefield Dunn had ever wanted was a family. _His_ family. "Uncle" Marty wasn't family. He was part of the lie, Henry reminded himself. He was part of the sham of a life he lived for too long—and for that he had to die.

All of them, spoke up the insistent, childlike voice in the back of his mind, had to _die_.

Under the scrutiny of his father's watchful gaze, Henry took a chance and called the image of Abby back to his mind. Still not over her earlier confession, he wasn't surprised that his thoughts turned back to Jimmy; she was shadowed by the memory of her _old flame_, he realized with a barely contained scowl. But he could never stay angry at Abby for too long and her image was enough to remind him what was at stake, and what he was doing this for.

Abby was his family. Abby and the island… he was doing this for_ them_.

Henry swallowed once, his wavering resolve solid again . He couldn't even believe he'd second guessed himself in the seconds that followed his stumble and his lapse. As if his conscience had never reared its ugly head, he was back in control and, with a cold and impassive voice, he asked, "What did you do with the pieces?"

Wakefield clucked his tongue. He seemed taken aback by Henry's question—taken aback yet undeniably impressed by Henry's interest. "What do you think I did? I hung them up a tree."

"Hung?"

It was just like his father, Henry thought. He could never understand Wakefield's fixation with such gruesome methods of death and disposal. A knife was too messy, even if it was personal, and to hang a victim in a tree was too much a slap in the face to those who found them. It was a daring gesture, one that screamed of wanting to be caught. That was what he had done to his ex-girlfriend—Henry's mother—and that alone was enough to make Henry purse his lips slightly; Wakefield, after all, _had_ gotten caught and almost died afterwards.

Besides, what would he do if anyone found his uncle first?

As if he could understand Henry's concerns, pluck them out of the night's sky and assuage them just as easily, Wakefield slowly shook his head. "Not like that, Henry. He's bound up and tucked in the trees, not strung up and swinging."

"Good," Henry said approvingly, even if his father's coarse language left something to be desired. "No one'll find him then."

"I didn't think it'd be a good idea to leave him hanging around."

"It wouldn't have been," Henry agreed. He paused again, a strange sort of morbid curiosity washing over him. He didn't understand why exactly—most likely because he truly was his father's son—but he had to ask, "How did you…?"

He let his sentence trail to a close there. Try as he might, he couldn't find the words to finish what he'd started.

Wakefield understood. Stooping slightly, he produced something he had hidden behind the tree he was leaning up against. The stray moonbeams that filtered through a break in the clouds landed on an intimidating weapon that Henry was only too familiar with—and not just from his experience on boats.

An oversized sort of axe, easily three feet tall and sharp as the sharpest sword… it was a head spade.

Confronted with the highly efficient instrument of death—designed for whaling, for chopping up a whale, it was amazing what the spade could do to a human body—Henry felt his plan immediately start to change again, ever evolving. How much easier would it be to do what he had to do when he could rely on the power of a head spade over a tiny pocketknife?

"Hey, do you think I could use it?"

"Why not," Wakefield said agreeably, offering the grip of the handle out to Henry. "I still have my knife."

John Wakefield's boarding knife, Henry was aware, was no pocketknife. He gratefully accepted the head spade from the man.

His father didn't waste time asking questions—if he was curious just why Henry wanted the weapon, he didn't say. Even more desperate to have a family that he could call his own, he trusted Henry—he trusted his _son_—and rarely questioned anything Henry said or did… except when it came to Abby Mills. But Henry, never one to allow himself to be caught unaware, always made sure he knew exactly what was going on.

Wakefield wanted revenge for the past. Henry just wanted to provide for the future. If being inquisitive or downright nosy secured him his future, so be it.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, carefully holding the pole of the head spade. This, too, glinted in the sparse moonlight and, unlike Wakefield's shirt, it was easy to see whether or not the weapon was clean. It was. Wakefield had far more respect for his tools than he did for the victims he used them on.

"I took it from that museum," Wakefield explained, a touch of boasting attached to his tone. "I broke in after it closed today and made off with it."

It was a good thing that it was so dark out—ever darker amongst the trees—because that way Wakefield couldn't see the flash of anger that danced across Henry's face; he struggled to maintain his hold on the carefully constructed mask he wore whenever he was with Wakefield. He couldn't believe how… how _stupid_ his father could be. One day on Harper's Island together and already he was drawing attention to the fact that something strange was afoot.

Charlie Mills, as sheriff, was an oaf—but he wasn't _that_ big of an oaf.

The other man had no idea the annoyance that plagued Henry. Bending down again, reaching behind the tree a second time—how he had been able to pick it out in the dark in the first place, Henry didn't know—Wakefield grabbed at something he couldn't see. With a soft, fluid motion he hefted it up high before tossing it straight at his son's feet. It landed with a thud.

"Look. I remembered the bag."

Henry had almost forgotten about Uncle Marty's bag. He was glad his father hadn't. Curious, momentarily forgetting his ire from only a few seconds ago, he asked, "Did he have it with him?"

"No. Had to take one of the tunnels and get it out of his room. Here," he added, reaching for something he kept in his coat pocket. He handed it to Henry. "I grabbed this, too. Thought we could use it."

Henry took it from him. Holding it up to his eyes, he could see that it was Uncle Marty's cell phone. He tucked it securely into his back pocket, mentally taking back his earlier negative thoughts. Maybe Wakefield wasn't so stupid after all. Reckless, maybe, but it had been a brilliant idea to take Marty's cell. It could definitely come in handy if people started to notice any early disappearances.

Still, there was something nagging him. His father could slip through the trees unseen, sure, but how could he waltz around the Candlewick without being recognized?

"No one saw you?"

Though Wakefield didn't answer his question, the malice in the silence was enough of a reply. Wakefield, Henry knew, prided himself on the underground tunnels on the island that he alone could control. He thought he owned the island now—only Henry knew otherwise. But he didn't want to offend his dad so, quickly, he amended his inflection. "Right. No one saw you."

Wakefield grunted, seemingly appeased.

Henry barely acknowledged the sound as he turned his attention back towards the bag. He picked it up, holding it tight in his hand, weighing it absently. It wasn't as heavy as he thought it would be; $250,000 in a leather bag should have weighed more. "Thanks. I'll have fun with this."

As if Henry's words reminded him of his own twisted pleasures, Wakefield gave a small, involuntary jerk. "Did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"The newspaper clipping I got for that girl. Did you do it?"

"Yes, Dad." Henry bit back the urge to sigh. Not only was Wakefield bringing up Abby—a subject he had hoped to avoid—but he was treating him like a child again. He didn't like it. But he needed John Wakefield, more than he cared to admit, and he had to be careful. So he was. "I left it on the bathroom mirror, just like you wanted me to."

"That's my boy."

He heard the pride in his father's voice. For a moment, that same tugging feeling he felt over Uncle Marty's murder was back—but this time it was directed solely towards Wakefield. What would happen, he wondered, if Wakefield didn't give in at the end? Henry had his own agenda, of course, and, the more he thought about it, the more he suspected how everything would end. He didn't like that either, but there was nothing else he could do.

Besides, as long as his happily-ever-after meant him and Abby alone together on Harper's Island forever, Henry didn't quite care about anything (or anyone) else.

The chill of an early autumn's night was still in the air and, as if just realizing that he ran out in his t-shirt, Henry absently rubbed at the goosebumps that erupted along his bare arms. He'd lost track of how long they'd been outside and he just hoped Trish was too preoccupied with setting her hair that she didn't notice that his ice run was taking forever. His mind was whirring a mile a minute, taking in everything Wakefield had told him during this meeting and everything there was to do now that they were both on the island.

"What now?" he asked, trying to cover up a quick shiver. Wakefield, whether it was because of his coat or not, didn't even seem to notice the brisk touch to the air.

"We need the church."

His father was right, too. Glancing down at the ominous glint of the head spade, Henry knew precisely what he could use it for. One death he'd asked to orchestrate—and couldn't wait to perform—was Thomas Wellington's. He wanted it to send a message and, as hard as it would be on Trish, he needed to take advantage of the emotions she'd feel when her father died. Henry already knew he wanted Wellington to be killed in the church, and he entertained the idea of rigging something to drop from the ornate chandelier that hung overhead.

He could just see it now. A switch being tripped and the head spade meeting Thomas Wellington's skull with a sickening _thwack_. Henry grinned. Probably a bit too eagerly, he wondered out loud, "What do we have to do in order to get the church?"

"I've been watching," Wakefield said and Henry nodded again. He was already well aware that the reason Wakefield had left for the island so many weeks in advance—besides tending to the traps and tunnels and setting up obstacles in the woods—was so that he could keep an eye on the goings-on the island itself. Anything to make the plan run smoothly. "We get rid of that reverend, we've got the church."

Henry thought of the old man, the deaf old reverend who'd been a part of the church for as long as Henry could remember. Already he thought of the man as nothing more than another sacrifice. "I'll take care of Reverend Fain," he said solemnly. Henry glanced down at the head spade in his hand. He would, he decided, just have to use it once before he installed it into the chandelier.

As if he knew what his son was thinking, Wakefield said, "And you're still going to rig the light switch for Wellington?"

"Yes." He thought of the way Trish's father treated him all his life—from a mere, insignificant boat washer to an undeserving fiancé to his youngest daughter—and he knew that the honor of having his head split open by the head spade was one he could only reserve for Thomas Wellington. "At the wedding rehearsal on Friday. That's one of the reasons we need the church." He set the head spade down, leaning it against another tree. "I think this will work nicely for that."

"Wellington has it coming," his father snarled. "That bastard is trying to get the wedding cancelled, you know that?"

"No," Henry responded, his voice quieter but still very controlled, "I didn't."

"I heard him talking to some scum when I was out looking for that _uncle _of yours. He's got plans as big as ours, Henry."

But Henry, who had stopped listening when he heard his father spit out the word "scum", didn't even bother to scoff that no one's plans could be as big as theirs.

_Jennings_...

He wasn't sure how he knew but he was sure that he did—the hunch was there and he accepted it unquestioningly. Hunter Jennings had followed them to Harper's Island. He had to have. Glancing from the head spade at his side to the bag of money at his feet, he felt a certain part of his plan start to evolve right there. As much as he wanted to see what would happen when Malcolm stumbled upon the bag, he wondered if he could use the bag to his advantage another way first…

All's fair in love and war. And he never had gotten back at Hunter for stealing his Trish away from him when they were all in college together.

"I've got Wellington," Henry promised after a moment, secretly including Hunter Jennings if he could get away with it. "He'll never have a chance."

Wakefield hesitated for just a second before nodding. Henry found himself suddenly suspicious. His father remembered their plan—what they had to do, who they had to kill—didn't he?

He hoped and prayed Wakefield remembered that much of it at least. By reaffirming and repeating again and again that Thomas Wellington was his to kill, Henry wanted him to remember another victim he had already (purposely) claimed: Abby. As long as Wakefield believed that Henry had every intention of killing Abby, then she was safe—Wakefield wouldn't do anything worse than whatever it was he wanted an old newspaper cutout and her phone number for.

Henry's entire plan hinged on that fact. He had to keep Abby marked as his just as he had to keep his true intentions under wrapped until no one—and he meant _no one_—else was left on the island.

But he wasn't going to worry so much about that just yet. There was still time, at least another day or two of quasi-peace, before Henry even had to entertain his other options. There was still time for him to sway his father's mind, to figure out a way to keep his family in tact—or to steel himself for an even bigger sacrifice.

Instead, he hefted Uncle Marty's bag of money a little higher, holding it close. It gave him promise, a secure feeling that things would work out just the way he wanted them to. So what if there already was a snag or two. Henry was prepared. Everything would be fine.

Feeling confident, he turned to his father and asked, "What are you going to do?" It was a good idea, he decided, to change the subject.

It had suddenly occurred to him that, for all their immediate plans—and some of the set murders—Wakefield had yet to offer any insight on what _he_ was planning to do until the time came when he could reveal himself. They both decided before Henry even left for Harper's Island that it would be prudent if none of the killings were discovered until Thomas Wellington's spectacular death on Friday. He couldn't allow his father to run amok, slashing his knife about without any guidance.

Sometimes Henry wondered which of the two was supposed to be the parent…

"You're having that bonfire tomorrow night?"

As if Henry needed to be reminded of another of Maggie Krell's wedding preparations. "Yes. As soon as the sun sets."

"I'll get to one then." It was eerie how little regard Wakefield had for his intended victims. At least Henry would try to give each of them the respect they deserved for their unwitting help in getting him his forever. But John Wakefield didn't seem to care and, as he looked forward to the prospect of more killings, he added, "Besides, I've got some other business to tend to tomorrow."

Henry, knowing better where his father was concerned—and not too sure he _wanted_ to know—didn't even ask.

* * *

**End Note**: Let me just leave you guys with this: it's much, much easier to get inside Henry's mind when I actually have some canon to work with. As fun as it was to work with Henry and Wakefield, holy crap did it take me awhile. But, at last, it's time for "Crackle". Episode two is coming up next!

_- stress, 09.11.09_


	7. crackle, part one

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

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**vii. crackle, part one;**

When Tuesday dawned it was, without a doubt, another beautiful day on Harper's Island.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing... up above, there wasn't even a single cloud in the late morning sky. It was, Henry decided, the perfect sort of day to commit murder.

He woke up with the sun but did not rise with it; it was still far too early to start his day when he, unable to continue sleeping, opened his eyes. There was no need to shower before heading out—a quick change and a splash at the sink was enough for now—so he spent the early hours quiet and content, effortlessly running his plans and his schedule through his head while, at the same time, wondering just how Abby was sleeping; only a few rooms away from him, she seemed as far away as ever to her anxious admirer. After climbing back into the bed, dressed and refreshed, Henry rolled onto his side, keeping the bright morning light behind him as he stared at the door that led out into the halls of the Candlewick Inn.

Trish, a light sleeper if there ever was one, responded to his return from the bathroom and his slight shift in position by edging closer and draping her hand possessively over his side so that her fingers were pressed to his chest. She didn't wake, though she did snuffle, and Henry did his part by staying still and staying quiet so that she would stay asleep.

There had been enough fabricated explanations last night when he finally returned to their room with nothing but a bucket of ice and a story about J.D. giving the old woman at the desk a hard time because he left his room key down at the Cannery. Despite being desperate lies thrown together when he found Trish dutifully waiting up for him, she thankfully believed his story and swallowed his lies.

She, Henry was aware, would be one person he wouldn't have any trouble convincing that J.D. Dunn was a murderer…

The hours drifted by lazily, no matter how hard he willed them to pass. He stayed in bed until he heard a faraway bell chime that it was ten o'clock. Taking the time as his cue _finally_, he slipped back out from beneath the covers and the comforting weight of Trish's arm, angling a pillow so that it caught her as she tumbled without his body to support her.

As he bent over to retrieve the dark grey jacket he'd thoughtfully removed from his suitcase the night before, she sighed, cozying up to the chill pillow. But, as soft as it was, the lack of warmth alerted her to his absence. Her eyelashes fluttered before her eyes opened, blinking away the streaming sunshine. "Henry," she murmured, "what time it is?"

"Morning, beautiful," he greeted her, an easy smile coming to his face. "It's just ten now."

"Ten…" she repeated, her hand coming up to cover the yawn she couldn't quite stifle. Stretching as she moved, Trish started to wake up. "Oh, no. I didn't oversleep, did I?"

Henry froze. Trish getting up so early was not part of his plan. He expected her to sleep in, getting up in time to get dressed, do her make-up and fix her hair—just like she always did after a late night. Why was she waking up _now_?

Thinking fast, he reached out and rubbed her back soothingly. She immediately stopped moving, lulled by the tender touch. "Shh… it's not too late," he whispered calmly. "The scavenger hunt won't start until noon, Trish, remember?"

"The hunt? That's right." She grinned into the pillow, closing her eyes as she settled herself back into the bed. But not one moment later, she squinted one of them back open in time to see Henry draping his jacket over his arm. "What are you doing up then?"

"I guess I'm just so excited to get this week started, I couldn't sleep. Thought I'd kill some time by checking in with J.D. since I was up anyway."

Her eyes closed again. "Mm… that's a good idea. We should make sure he's alright."

"Not getting into anymore trouble, you mean?" Henry interpreted with a knowing chuckle. "Don't worry, I will. And then," he added, punctuating his words with a small kiss on the back of her slightly sleep-mussed hair, "I will come back to get ready to go down with you."

"Mm-hmm." Trish sighed, pulling the blanket up to her chin before breathing out a soft, "Love you, Henry."

The words were muffled, spoken into the pillow as Trish drifted back off to sleep. As light a sleeper as she was, Henry knew that she was capable of falling asleep just as easily. So easily, in fact, that he didn't even waste his time shallowly echoing her sentiments.

Instead, pausing only to slip on a pair of sneakers, he headed straight for the door.

He didn't look back.

The way Henry saw it, timing was everything. It was absolutely crucial. As elaborate as their scheme of revenge was, as minutely planned as certain aspects of it were, it was all for nothing if any of the timing was off. He knew from Maggie's utterly boring—but admittedly useful—meeting yesterday afternoon that the scavenger hunt for some of the younger guests was to start promptly at noon following a quick informal brunch on the terrace. That was one time.

First, though, she had to make sure that the tasks and the props for the hunt were in place. The guests would have to go to four different locales—the Cannery, the Eastern Bluff, the Maritime Museum and the church—taking pictures with props, answering questions about Trish and Henry, and completing tasks in order to win. As she let slip during their meeting, Maggie had had time before the chartered yacht arrived Monday afternoon to visit three of the four spots; Reverend Fain had been out to see Doctor Campbell about his hearing aid and wasn't around earlier Monday to accept the accessories for the scavenger hunt.

Maggie, mistaking Henry's sudden interest in her winded explanations as disappointment in her planning skills, hurriedly told the pair that she made arrangements to visit Reverend Fain down at the church first thing Tuesday morning—which was why, as Henry walked confidently through the surprisingly empty lobby and out the front door of the inn, he knew that attending to the reverend before the scavenger hunt was the best timing he could have hoped for. Fain would certainly be at the church, and with so many people coming and going, it would be difficult to pin down just who could've been the last one to see the old reverend.

It was such a beautiful day outside that Henry couldn't help but feel a giddy sort of anticipation for his first kill actually on the island. Reverend Fain's death was necessary for the acquisition of the church—he was almost looking forward to it, even. With the reverend dead, one whole part of the plan was cleared: Thomas Wellington's sensational murder was almost guaranteed.

With his hands in his pockets and that same charming smile splitting his lips, Henry went around the back of the inn, heading towards the trees where he met Wakefield last night.

There was a flurry of activity going on around back that lent life to the normally quiet terrace. A group of Candlewick Inn employees were busy setting up for the early afternoon festivities. Henry offered the nearest—an apprehensive sort of girl with a bowed head and a worried frown who wore the same powder blue polo as the rest of the staff—a cheerful wave but, if she saw him, she didn't act like she did. Dropping her head even lower, she fiddled with a tray in front of her before turning her back on him.

He let out a small sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was someone wondering why he was disappearing off into the woods. Sure, he'd have an entirely believable excuse if anyone _did _ask, but it was just easier for him to be able to slip in and around the island unnoticed. Like his father did.

Purposely following his father's same path into the woods, Henry stopped at the grove of trees where the two of them had had their meeting the night before. Knowing full well that he couldn't bring the head spade and Uncle Marty's money into the inn with him, he had left them securely under the tree, partially disguised by the grass. He left the bag where it was, hefted the heavy spade up off the ground and quickly loped off towards the First Church of Harper's Island.

Taking a path through the trees, Henry was careful to keep his eyes and ears alert. The forest was far less intimidating in the light of day and he knew that it was more than possible that he could run into a local or even a guest out for a morning jog. At one point he thought he might have even heard a nearby gunshot; he entertained the angry thought that maybe his father was up to something before remembering Wakefield's aversion to using guns. They just weren't _fun_ enough.

After a close scare where he thought he heard footsteps coming toward him—it was the quick run of a deer running away from that same gunshot, he figured—Henry found himself on the edge of the church just in time to see Maggie Krell approaching. With a bag for the props and some fresh-baked scones he could smell on the wind, she spent a few minutes talking to Reverend Fain as he finished sweeping the corners of the doorway with an old broom.

They seemed to have a pleasant conversation—Maggie was certainly smiling as she bustled away back to the inn—before the reverend was left alone. If there was ever a chance for Henry to take the reverend out of the picture and secure the use of the church for himself, this was it.

He wasn't sure precisely_ how_ he was going to go about killing Reverend Fain but, like all good plans, he had a bit of luck on his side to insure that he succeeded. For some reason, the old reverend decided to enjoy his scone in the woods; for some reason, the path he chose to take brought him right on top of a rope trap that strung him up upside down when he stepped on it.

Henry didn't know whose snare caught the reverend's foot—Wakefield had spent the last few weeks booby-trapping parts of the island but, as he found out and told his son, he wasn't the only one—but he was grateful all the same. He had sprung out from his place among the trees and swung the heavy spade purposely at the old man before anyone had any time to say a word. Not a shriek of surprise or a scream or even a satisfied grunt.

The head spade found its mark and easily did its job; the head hit the ground with a sickening thud before rolling a few feet away.

After that, everything became mechanical. Years of his father's training in the back alleys and the dark Washington streets had readied him for this. Henry reacted without ever once having to think about his actions.

The old reverend was cut down immediately before any blood could start to spurt all over Henry; another swing aimed at the rope with the sharp blade of the head spade sent his corpse tumbling to the dirt. The trap that Reverend Fain had tripped was too close to the edge of the woods. It was up to Henry to move him, to tuck the body out of sight, before anyone could notice a thing.

Careful not to leave too much of a blood trail—and trying to emulate his father and keep his t-shirt clean—he grabbed the corpse by the ankles, dragging him deeper into the woods. There wasn't enough time to properly dispose of the body, and he refused to follow his father's lead and leave the reverend hanging in a tree. For now, Henry kept going until he found a small clearing with an oversized bush that seemed perfectly suited for his purposes. Reverend Fain fit perfectly underneath; not even the blood that continued to squirt out—how much blood did the old man have in him anyway, Henry wondered—was visible.

He had to refrain from making crude _Hamlet_ jokes as he went back to retrieve the severed head. There was something about a successful kill that always put him in a good mood and Henry was smiling a coy, little smile as he tucked the rest of the reverend under the bush.

As soon as he pronounced his work done, Henry whipped out his cell phone from his back pocket. It had been an ingenious move on his part to return Uncle Marty's cell back to Wakefield. Texts and phone calls could be explained until his body was found, and it was a better means for the two of them to communicate without relying on Wakefield's anonymous number.

Just in case, he decided against dialing out the number and for two reasons: he didn't want to be overheard, and it was too soon after his uncle's disappearance—he doubted anyone even noticed he was gone yet—to have a few minute conversation on his phone. Even if he wasn't cut up into pieces and stuffed into a tree, Marty Dunn never got up before noon if he didn't have to.

It was a quick message, telling his father that he had accomplished his morning goal and asking for his help. There wasn't that much time let for him to get back to the inn and get ready for the scavenger hunt—he needed Wakefield to come and take care of both the mess that was Reverend Fain and the mess that he left behind when he was killed. It was, he knew, something his father would more than enjoy doing. Then, one the message confirmed that it was sent, he tucked his cell phone away and, stopping only to grab the head spade, he set back off for the Candlewick.

He hadn't got much blood on him, he noticed proudly; the few drops that stained his white tee were quickly covered up by the jacket he had thoughtfully brought with him. Playing absently with the sleeve with one hand, holding the spade with a sure grip in the other, he allowed himself a congratulatory (and figurative) pat on the back for a job well done.

Henry left the head spade in the same spot where he had stowed Uncle Marty's bag of money, making a small mental note to retrieve them both during the scavenger hunt that night if he could get away with it. Until then, he didn't need them and they would be safe amongst the trees.

Coming up on the back entrance of the Candlewick, he saw that the terrace was entirely decorated and, except for one or two employees milling around, touching up a plate or two, the busyness from earlier was gone. He slipped by them easily, relieved to have avoided another opportunity for onlookers to ask him any questions. It was with a satisfied smirk and a soft whistle on his lips that he reentered the front lobby and immediately headed off to his room.

As always, Henry had concocted a believable story as to why he was returning so late when all he was going to do was check on J.D.—but, he discovered, it wasn't necessary. The door to his room was locked and, when he pulled his key out of his pocket and opened the door, he found that the room they still shared was empty. Trish was gone.

For a moment he thought that maybe she was still in the bathroom but, when she didn't answer his calls, Henry frowned. He contemplated calling her cell phone… before spying the slim pink phone resting mockingly on the dresser. The screen featuring Hunter Jennings' name from the night before flashed before his eyes and, suspicious creature he was, he wondered just where Trish had run off to—and if she had run off to meet with Hunter.

The giddy sensation that seemed to accompany any successful kill was quickly fading; he felt his entire body start to heat up in fury at the thought that his Trish might have snuck off to meet with her old boyfriend. Henry had nothing to go on but his own suspicions and an instinctive hunch, but where would he be today if he didn't follow what his gut told him?

He noticed his hands were shaking and he willed them to stop. Stray flecks of dried blood dotted the backs of his hands, he saw; struggling to hold onto his satisfaction, he went into the bathroom—the Trish-free bathroom—and washed them roughly. Too keyed up to even think about getting in the shower, he washed his face, brushed his teeth and spit angrily into the sink.

The clothes had to go. He'd done his best to stay clean but there was enough blood to draw attention on his shirt. Fooling himself that he was calming down, he ripped the shirt into shreds and threw them in a spare garbage bag he kept in his suitcase. The jeans he kept on, and, after pulling on another undershirt, he added a pale purple button-down shirt that made him look far more casual than he felt.

But it was when he pulled out a pair of socks from the bottom of his luggage case and found the sedatives he had stowed in the toe of one particular sock that he allowed himself, momentarily at least, to forget about Trish's absence. He'd tried to find a time yesterday when he could leave the prescription bottle in J.D.'s room but it hadn't worked out for him. But now… maybe it would.

Anything to get his mind off of Trish. If she _was_ sneaking around with Hunter… well, there was a good chance that all of the lies and the pretending wouldn't be necessary when his sense of pride and ownership led him to take both Hunter and Trish out of the picture.

Henry Dunn wasn't a bad person. He just had a high sense of what was his. Trish had left him for Hunter Jennings once before—he wasn't about to let her do that right when it mattered so much that they were together.

He felt his hand squeezing the prescription bottle tightly—too tightly—and he hurriedly shoved them in his pocket. Aware of the small bulge it made, he rearranged the material of his shirt until he was satisfied that they were hidden. Then, slipping his shoes off, finally pulling a clean pair of socks on and cramming his feet eagerly back into the shoes, he purposely left his thoughts of Trish behind him in their room as he, for the second time, set off for J.D.'s room.

Feeling both hopeful and determined, Henry kept his hands in his pockets, kept his one hand on the important bottle, and hurried down the hall. A quick glance at his watch showed that it was about eleven-thirty now; there was still half an hour until he had to be on the terrace, ready to play the part of the excited host once more.

He would enjoy the spare moments he got when he could just be himself instead of the straight-laced, goody-goody Henry Dunn he was supposed to be…

Thinking of the fun he'd already had since their departure from Seattle only yesterday morning, he paused outside of Room 204 and pulled the small orange bottle out of his pocket and grinned. The only reason he had them was so he could get Ben Wellington out of the way, and that plan had worked like a charm. The sedatives, as powerful as they were, had put the nosy Wellington cousin to a sleep he had never woken up from. Their part in Henry's plans was over and done with—it was time for them to go.

It was with a crooked grin and a glint in his brown eyes that he remembered how _easy_ it was to get a prescription for the sedatives and then replace one of his brother's meds with them. J.D. never noticed it when the pills went missing in the first place and Henry was sure he wouldn't be able to tell when it reappeared in a few minutes. And since the bottle was full of the same sedatives that doped Ben Wellington before he was killed and the label read J.D. Dunn, there would be no doubt that his brother had _something_ to do with what was happening on the island.

All that was left to do now was leave this planted prescription behind with all of J.D.'s other things. Which was precisely what Henry planned to do.

He tucked the prescription bottle back inside his pants pocket, made sure the evidence was secure and folded his free hand into a loose fist. Henry didn't know what he would find inside Room 204 but he wouldn't find it if he didn't knock first. Once, twice he rapped his knuckles against the polished wooden door but, no surprise, there wasn't any answer.

Resting his hand on the brass door handle, he called out, "J.D., you here?"

His brother still didn't answer him which, to Henry, meant one of three things: one, J.D. had already gone out for the day—but, considering he was as nocturnal as a bat, that was probably wrong. Two, J.D. was asleep and couldn't hear his knocking—that, Henry figured, was definitely a more plausible scenario. Then again, there was the most likely explanation of all: J.D. was up, he was inside the room but he was purposely doing his best to ignore Henry's calls.

Squaring his shoulders—he wasn't about to let an opportunity to further his plan pass him by—Henry let the handle turn under his palm. Unlike the evening before when he found himself locked outside on this very same spot, the handle turned easily, stopping with a click before the door creaked inward. It was open.

He stepped inside slowly, immediately met with the sound of running water once he entered the rented room. It was a harsh noise, not so much an echo, and he thought it might be the sink running in the bathroom. It wasn't muffled enough to be the shower.

Raising his voice just enough to carry over the sound, he called out his brother's name again.

The water stopped. "Is that you, Henry?"

Giving his brother the same courtesy of refusing to answer him straight away, Henry turned behind him and closed the door. He valued his privacy and the last thing he needed was someone to walk in on him when he was planting his bottle alongside J.D.'s other medications.

When the front door was closed, he moved towards the center of the room, pausing at the dresser. "Are you dressed?" he asked casually, looking at all of the prescriptions J.D. had conveniently left out for anyone to rifle through.

There were about three or four bottles already scattered along the top of the dresser. Casting a quick eye over them, Henry had the justified suspicion that J.D. still wasn't taking his medicines as regularly as he was supposed to. Not that he probably needed them—J.D.'s paranoia surrounding their… well, _his_ parents' deaths was certainly warranted, Henry agreed—but he was much easier manipulated when he was doped up on his meds.

Keeping still so that the sound of the pills rattling against the orange plastic wouldn't be heard from the bathroom, Henry slipped his hand back into his pocket. In one fluid motion he took the sedatives out, placed them down behind another taller bottle, and turned it around so that its label (and its sudden appearance) wouldn't be so noticeable.

He finished just in time to hear J.D.'s hesitant response to his simple question:

"Uh, no. I'm not. Can I catch you later, bro?"

It wasn't so much an answer as it was a kiss-off and it was that that caught Henry's attention. If he wasn't in the shower, why wasn't he dressed? It seemed, Henry thought, that maybe he wasn't the only one guarding a secret.

Curious, and also just spiteful enough to stick around when J.D. obviously wanted him to leave, he decided to make the most of this chance. At any rate, he already had J.D. picked out to be his fall guy—he planned on letting his brother stay alive long enough to take the blame if Wakefield let him—and what use was a fall guy if he didn't protect his own interests first? He couldn't let a sense of cockiness ruin everything; he had to remember to asset his own (if entirely false) innocence from time to time.

As if anyone would suspect _him_ anyway…

"Have you seen Uncle Marty this morning?"

"Nope. Haven't been out."

This time J.D.'s answer came quick—and was, Henry figured, as much as a lie. Just _what_ was he up to in there?

And then, partway to wondering why J.D. kept lying, Henry shook his head. Why should it matter to him what J.D. was up to? If his wayward, ne'er-do-well _adopted_ brother ran around the island, getting into trouble and acting even more suspicious, then that actually worked to his advantage. It left Henry to play his part, the beleaguered older brother and trustworthy friend, without any unneeded attention falling his way. Everyone would be too busy watching J.D.—

—just like they always have, he thought bitterly, a cross frown marring his features. It was always about J.D.: the _real _son, the youngest child, the troublemaker, the nutcase with his suicide attempts... J.D. was used to being the center of attention, so why shouldn't Henry let him be one now? What bigger way to have everyone's eyes on you than by being known as a mass-murdering serial killer?

Of course, the perfect, respectable older brother figure of Henry Dunn that Henry was expected to be would never condone J.D.'s careless and reckless behavior. J.D.'s short answers were only natural if he was waiting for some sort of lecture regarding last night. Henry couldn't disappoint him. Besides, if it wasn't for his brother sneaking off to the Cannery instead of staying at the Candlewick, then Abby never would've gone after him and met up with Jimmy Mance. It didn't matter that it was Henry's idea to send Abby after him—it was, as usual, J.D.'s fault.

Just another way for him to get attention, Henry scowled.

Then, clearing his throat as he shunted aside the jealousy he refused to acknowledge, he tried to sound as if he was being sincere instead of angry as he began, "Listen, um, I was wondering if maybe you could, uh—"

"Stay out of trouble," J.D. offered sarcastically. "Not ruin your wedding?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

There was a pause and then—just as Henry should've expected—there came the excuses. J.D. sounded like an elementary student sent to see the principal after a schoolyard fight he shouldn't have been in. He was all self-righteousness, denials and whines as he argued, "Shane started the fight."

"Shane's a jerk," Henry agreed. "That's not really news, but we're not locals anymore."

"Well, we were never locals," J.D. tossed back. "We were summer guys. They tolerated you because you hung out with Abby. They always hated me."

Henry felt his frown return. He didn't like to be reminded that he wasn't raised on Harper's Island like he should've been. He'd been born there and, in his opinion, that made him as much of a local as Abby or Shane—he was just a local that only got to live there during the summers.

Too preoccupied with J.D.'s taunts and careless mention of Abby to react any other way, Henry replied automatically, "They don't hate you." And then he blanched because he, and his brother for sure, knew that he was lying.

J.D.'s scoff could be heard through the bathroom door. "Like I care. You're the one with this twisted need to be liked by everyone."

"Look," Henry snapped then, his voice coming out much sharper than he wanted it to. He was losing his patience with his brother—J.D. knew how to test his control more than anyone else—and he felt his hold on the situation go slack. First the comment about being locals, then a personal attack… J.D. didn't know how fine a line he was toeing with his reckless attitude. "I just want this week to go well."

Didn't know or, Henry thought, didn't care. J.D. actually sounded please as he offered a glib, "Ah, well, good luck with that," before he turned the water back on. Whether Henry wanted it to be or not, their _brotherly_ chat was over.

Henry remained motionless for a second, eyeing the outside of the bathroom door with hatred etched into every line of his face. He barely noticed his hands clenched into tight fists at his side—all he knew was a pulsing anger that even the thought of Abby Mills happily by his side couldn't contain. His father's blood coursing through his veins, Henry had the sudden impulse to barge in on J.D., find out exactly what he was doing in there and then bash his head in on the edge of the sink. _That_ would serve his brother right for his troublemaking and his smart remarks.

But he didn't. Of course he didn't. He took one deep breath, then another, flexing his fingers as he willed them to relax. Just like when he wanted nothing more than to go after Jimmy, the rational part of Henry took over. What good would his scapegoat be if he was one of the first victims of Harper's Island's second tragedy?

Besides, somewhere, deep down, the part of him that thought of J.D. Dunn as his younger brother for more than twenty years couldn't even imagine what it would be like to kill him. Unlike their lying "parents", J.D. didn't know the truth—and Henry certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell him. There was still some sort of bond there, even if each one of them though that they were the misfit. The one that didn't belong. The outcast.

Henry thought of his dark-haired, wild-eyed tattooed and troubled brother as he let himself out of room 204, and he made a point to keep his eye on him in the days to come. As much as he couldn't repress his urge to strike out against J.D.—giving new meaning to the term "sibling rivalry"—Henry knew it would never be as easy as that. He hadn't let him commit suicide in the past and he wasn't all that sure he could watch his brother die now.

And that, he mused as he headed downstairs, could definitely be a problem…

* * *

**Author's Note**: Well, on the one hand, this update is a little later than I would have liked. But, on the other, it's the longest chapter I've written for this story so far. I wasn't sure if I wanted to just leave this through the first murder or continue onto the canon scene from this episode - in the end, I decided it would be best to get through the scene with J.D.. That leaves me free to start up with the scavenger hunt with the next chapter. And, speaking of the next chapter, that one might be a little delayed, too. I have my birthday - my 26th, and yes, I'm old x_x - on Saturday and my sister is taking me out for the weekend; I'm not sure how much writing I'll be getting done between now and then but, hopefully, I'll get to this before Friday. Until then, I hope you liked this!

_- stress, 09.27.09  
_


	8. crackle, part two

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. Any dialogue from the second episode, "Crackle", included is used only to further the story.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

* * *

**viii. crackle, part two;**

He could feel their questioning eyes on him, the mild chatter of a handful of different conversations not enough to make their stares any less uncomfortable. Standing at the front end of the Candlewick's terrace, next to the Harper's Island map Maggie Krell had drawn up just for the event, Henry had to work hard to keep his cheery smile from dipping down.

It was already quarter after twelve. Where in the world was Trish?

Absently, he began to tap his sneaker against the floor of the terrace before realizing just what he was doing. He covered up his impatience with a small, embarrassed chuckle, pulling out his cell phone and glancing at the time again just to make sure he had seen it right—that, and wondering why, if Trish had a good reason for being late, there wasn't a missed call yet, either.

Unless, of course, she never made it back to their room to retrieve her phone in the first place…

Henry's stomach tightened as a pressing thought popped into his head; his breath hitched and this time he covered his unsettledness with another quick grin and a small wave at the antsy gathering. Trish had been inexplicably missing when he stopped by their room earlier. Was it possible that his father, unable to contain himself, had chanced upon her and seized the opportunity to take her out of the picture?

It had to be obvious, Henry admitted, just how hesitant he was to actually have to kill Trish Wellington when she was done being useful. But Wakefield wouldn't jeopardize their whole plan so early… would he?

Henry was almost positive that his father would remember to keep Trish for the end, but, if he was being honest with himself, he couldn't be quite so sure. And, he thought, what if it wasn't Wakefield who got her? Hunter Jennings had been the one to call her last night, after all. What if Henry's earlier suspicions were right and Trish really did run off to meet with her ex-boyfriend?

If that was true, he mused, then being too attached to his longtime sweetheart wouldn't spare Trish her life in the end. Jealousy would be all the motivation that Henry Dunn needed to stick a knife in his fiancée's back.

The small number on the screen flipped from 12:15 to 12:16 as he watched. Inwardly sneering, he slipped his phone back into his pocket before addressing the crowd again. "Just a few more minutes, guys, then we'll get the show on the road."

Looking out at the sea of faces, one in particular stood out at him. Abby caught his eye and winced in sympathy for him. She knew how he felt—she always knew everything about him, that's why they were so perfect for each other—and Henry had the sudden desire to leave his spot and swiftly join Abby by the side where she was standing with all of the groomsmen.

That was where he belonged. With her, by her, not standing alone, _waiting _for another woman.

He probably would have done it, too, forget about the entire scavenger hunt and just spent the day with Abby if it wasn't for the sudden and incessant tapping of a pair of heels as someone came franticly running towards the terrace.

Trish wasn't running when she stepped into view—but it was easy to see that she had just stopped. Some of her light brown hair had fallen out of place and there was a heave to her chest as she fought to catch her breath; the small black and white sundress couldn't hide that, no matter how demurely she placed her hands in front of her.

Henry couldn't tell if he was relieved to see that she hadn't fallen victim to John Wakefield just yet or disappointed that she arrived just when he was getting ready to give up on her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Abby's face split into a truly happy grin and he knew what he had to do.

It wasn't time to drop his act yet.

"There she is," he announced proudly, holding his arm out towards Trish, inviting her to cozy up to him. "I think you all remember my lovely but _late_ bride-to-be." He couldn't resist that little dig, that quick mention to let her know that she wasn't going to be let off the hook so easily. A coy smile might work on everyone else, but it wouldn't work with him.

Still, he effortlessly kept his tone light and teasing as he slung his arm comfortably around her shoulder. It was a little awkward for him to have Trish place her arm so snugly around his waist; it was a romantic gesture he didn't want Abby to witness and he found himself unable to look back over in her direction.

The group had erupted in cheers at the sight of Trish's arrival, followed by an impromptu, hummed chorus of "Here Comes the Bride". There was laughter and happiness all around and Henry fought to refrain from rolling his eyes.

Trish, in her own way, was as good an actress as Henry was an actor. Her wide, million dollar smile never wavered as she turned to greet the wedding party. "My apologies," she simpered to their gathered friends and family. "Bride's work is never done."

Her quip was met by another round of exuberance by all—_most_—gathered around. In the midst of the hoots and hollers and dreadful noise, Trish leaned into Henry. Like a ventriloquist, she barely moved her lips as she muttered, "What else did I miss?"

"Just most of it," Henry shot back, a little more testily than he should have. The annoyance was intentional this time and he felt Trish tense under the weight of his arm. He was glad.

Feeling more confident and at ease since he first arrived on the terrace just before noon, Henry plunged himself back into the role of a congenial host. He barely noticed Trish's small frown or the way she pulled slightly away from him; already safe behind the mask of Henry Dunn, he tightened his hold on her shoulder and gave everyone the impression that he couldn't bear to be separated from her.

He could hear himself being absolutely fake as he went over the instructions for that morning's scavenger hunt for the countless time and hoped that no one else noticed. He wasn't banking on Trish picking up the subtle difference in his inflection, and Sully was too busy checking out Chloe Carter to notice anything out of the ordinary. Henry was still a bit leery of looking Abby's way—if anyone noticed his sudden shift in mood, it would be her—and he purposely kept his eyes on the map as he went over the plan one more time.

It was very straightforward. There were specific tasks to be performed at each of the four chosen locations, he explained, and the guests would have to visit the church, the Eastern Bluff, the Cannery and the Maritime Museum and finish all of the tasks in order to win. Those involved would be split up among three teams—red, yellow and blue—and the first team that finished the tasks and made it back to the Candlewick Inn would be the winner.

"Have fun," he said at the end, finishing up his explanation. "Make new friends. We'll see you back this afternoon."

Trish was silent as he spoke and she didn't bother speaking up once he finished. He could tell she was still responding to the way he reacted to her late arrival and Henry, still too peeved to care, was grateful for her silence.

One of Maggie's staff went around then, handing out the colored bandanas to each of the guests. Henry watched him with an interested eye; now that his part in setting up the hunt was done, he was curious to see what groups Maggie had made up with Trish's input. Trying not to look too eager, his gaze sought out Abby in time to see Danny helping her tie the blue bandana wrapped around her wrist.

A quick, desperate glance around at those milling about the terrace and Henry discovered the other three people chosen to be in Abby's group: Richard Allen, Trish's brother-in law; Lucy Daramour, one of the bridesmaids; and Sully. Henry blanched. Someone had paired off his Abby with _Sully_.

Suddenly any good humor or even vindication that Henry had worked up after shutting Trish down seemed to simply vanish. Behind his carefully constructed mask his eyes blazed to see Abby and Sully together in any shape or form _without him_. Over the last he didn't know how many years Henry made sure he had done everything he could in order to keep them apart, including planting himself between the them and even going so far as to shadow Abby the last time Sully tried to worm his way into her bed. His fingers itching to reach for the knife stowed securely in his pocket, he wondered if anyone would notice if Sully went missing next.

But fate, it seemed, was smiling down on Henry. Sully's death wouldn't be necessary—not yet, at any rate. As Henry watched, Sully separated himself from his friends before making a beeline across the terrace. His target: the oblivious Cal Vandeusen, Chloe Carter's boyfriend.

The Brit was, stereotypically, drinking a cup of tea when Sully approached him. Henry couldn't hear what Sully was saying to Cal but, when the short exchange was done, Cal had Sully's wadded up turquoise bandana clutched in his hand while Sully was waving Cal's yellow one around like a hard-earned prize.

Neither the arrogant and cocky look of triumph splayed across Sully's face nor the dawning understanding that Chloe also wore yellow was enough to dim the relief that washed over Henry at that moment. Cal was harmless, like a little puppy dog who followed his mistress at her heels and was lost without her; so harmless, in fact, that he felt no jealousy whatsoever when Abby strode up next to Cal.

That was just like Abby, Henry marveled. All she had to do was say a few words and already Cal appeared a little less bewildered as she led them away, towards the rest of their quartet.

Henry let out a small sigh. He felt much better—

—until he felt someone tug at the sleeve of his purple shirt and he realized that he wasn't as alone as he thought he was. That, and he'd been caught staring.

Turning his head to his left just a bit he saw that Trish was gazing up at him, confusion written on her pretty face. "You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," Henry told her with a sure nod, "I'm fine." And he meant it, too.

She didn't look like she believed him.

It wasn't until the divided groups all set off and Maggie started ordering her employees around like some sort of deranged wedding crazed drill sergeant that Henry and Trish finally left the terrace.

There was an outside layer to the Candlewick Inn, covered up top and surrounded by thick slabs of stone. Great, wide windows were cut into the stony walls, overlooking the grounds and really accentuating the beauty of the trees and the serenity of Harper's Island. It was by one of those windows that Trish paused and Henry, seeing she wasn't right behind him anymore, stopped in turn.

She didn't say anything right away, hemming and hawing a bit as she fiddled with the ends of her dress. Her brow was furrowed, as if she was working up the nerve to say something; she wasn't quite meeting his eyes. Henry raised his eyebrow as he waited. This had to be good.

"Look," Trish began at last, lifting her head and jutting her chin out slightly, "I'm sorry, baby, okay? I had an important wedding errand to run."

"And you had to do it today?"

"Yeah," she offered back, a touch too defiantly for Henry's liking. "I did."

"Hm…" There was no denying the disbelief he let color his tone. He didn't even try to hide it, but he did choose to give in, to let it go, if only because there was no way he was going to tip Trish off to the fact that he was suspicious. That tidbit, he decided, was better kept to himself.

He shook his head, sighing. "Alright. It's just been a weird morning. You weren't here, Uncle Marty still hasn't shown up…"

"Well, come on. You can help me with something," Trish said brightly. The relief she felt that Henry accepted her flimsy excuse was palpable as she reached for his hand and gave it a gentle pull.

Henry was leery, even more suspicious now that he was before. "What?"

"Let's go."

Against his better judgment, and just a touch curious, Henry followed.

* * *

It started out innocently enough. Though he had thought they'd already decided on vanilla and strawberries for the wedding cake no one would ever eat, Trish seemed to have other ideas. A come hither glint in her warm brown eyes and a promising curve to her grin, she led him through the first floor of the Candlewick, swaying her hips seductively as she pulled a not-so-reluctant Henry behind her.

They say that, like oysters, chocolate can be quite the aphrodisiac. It has to be, Henry figured. There was no other way for him to explain what happened in the kitchen with Trish after they started the cake tasting. Only someone drunk on such high quality chocolate cake would let a woman seduce him like that.

And to think he'd been angry at Trish before she led him down to the empty kitchen…

He was manipulated by beauty, lust and decadent pastries. Lost in her kiss and her touch, her gentle moans sounding in his ears, Henry allowed her to have her way, falling deeper into the personality he'd mastered forever ago. It wasn't until every last smear of chocolate had been lapped from their skin and the feverish breathing began to slow that he felt his sense begin to return.

Oh, she was _good_.

If her intent had been to get Henry to forget about her absence that morning, it certainly worked. As he struggled to get himself back under control, too aware and too stubborn to actually _forget_, Henry decided that it wasn't worth the worrying right now. There was enough for him to do—to prepare for—and he couldn't let a small blow to his pride take precedence over the plan. And that was if his suspicions about Trish and Hunter were even proven true.

He felt her breath against his neck as she laid her head on his shoulder. Perfectly content, she reached her hands around so that she had him in a loose embrace. The cozy moment was only broken when she murmured, "I should really get cleaned up."

Considering most of the chocolate had ended up on Trish, she had a point. Henry nodded before adding, "There's still a lot to do today."

Trish groaned. "Ugh, don't remind me."

"Hey, I always said we could elope."

"Well, this is better," Trish said, pretending to be stern as she pulled away from him, "even if Maggie and the prep is going to drive us crazy before Saturday. Getting married on the island, Henry… it's a dream come true."

She didn't know how right—and how wrong—she was.

Trish tilted her head back, puckering her lips enough that her invitation for a kiss was obvious. Henry obliged her, smiling through the gesture. He expected her to leave then but, comfortable in the arms of a murderer, she didn't let go.

When she finally pried herself loose and headed out of the kitchen, Henry didn't linger behind for long. The two of them had left enough of a mess behind them and he wasn't going to be the one to clean it up. So he followed Trish's path out of the empty room before it wasn't empty any longer—but he didn't head up to the room they shared on the second floor.

Henry had other plans.

Remembering Trish's strange request from the night before, he decided that maybe she was on to something when she suggested that they rented separate rooms until the wedding. It didn't really matter what bed they slept in since there wouldn't actually _be _a wedding come Saturday, but it might be a good idea for him to have another room where he could be by himself. He could never have been the one to bring up the idea to her, but now that Trish made the suggestion, Henry thought he should go for it.

Who knows? Maybe he wouldn't have to tiptoe around so much if he had his own headquarters where he could continue to keep his plans from his oblivious fiancée…

Straightening his shirt and flattening his unruly dark hair with his fingers, Henry looked down and pronounced himself good enough to enter the lobby of the Candlewick without drawing any unnecessary stares. He could only imagine the sort of looks he would get if he was covered from head to toe in sticky chocolate and tiny pieces of uneaten cake.

Once again, luck was on his side as he was just about to enter the front of the inn. He'd expected cross the lobby and head towards Maggie's office to find the woman but there she was, coming out the entry as he was preparing to go in. Her head was down, looking at the cell phone in her hand. She didn't see Henry until he called out to her.

"Hey, Maggie."

She gave a small start, palming her phone before glancing up in surprise. "Henry!" she cried, her hand on her heart. She was startled but, ever the perfect hostess, she recovered nicely. "How's the scavenger hunt going?"

"No one's come back yet. I hope we didn't make the trivia questions too hard." He paused and smiled mischievously, causing his dimples to appear charmingly. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked how many pairs of socks I own."

"Oh, hush. I'm sure your friends will do just fine. Now, what can I do for you?"

He'd already planned just what he wanted to say as he left the kitchen. The words came easily. Naturally. "I wanted to ask you earlier but, well, with Trish not there… anyway, I was talking with her last night and she thinks it might be a good idea if we had separate rooms until the wedding. Is there a spare room I could possibly have until Saturday?"

"You know, I think that's a great idea, and I just might have something even better for you. Here, come with me."

Turning around, Maggie went right back inside the Candlewick, Henry striding confidently in her wake. She brought him to the front desk in the lobby where the same haunted girl from the morning was standing by the phones, playing with a bracelet on her wrist and acting as if she'd rather be anywhere else at that moment. She looked up when her boss came behind the counter, her skittish dark eyes landing on Henry for a split second before she dropped her gaze entirely.

Maggie spared her a sympathetic pat on her shoulder and a motherly grin before tending to the task at hand. She pulled a drawer out, a drawer that was out of view from anyone on the other side of the desk; Henry, leaning with his forearms against the countertop, tried to see what she was doing but was unable to.

So, denying the urge to rap his knuckles impatiently, Henry waited for Maggie while pretended not to notice the unnerving stare coming from the employee. She had ignored him earlier when she was busy with the morning's work on the terrace—or so he had thought. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see that, now he was ignoring her, she was out and out staring at him.

Henry didn't like it, and he hoped she wouldn't be trouble. The last thing he needed just then was for this girl to have recognized him and start wondering what he was doing heading into the forest _alone_ so early in the morning.

Carefully, he moved his head a touch to his left, making the eye contact that followed seem like an accident. She looked mortified to have been caught watching him; a quick smile on Henry's part brought a flash of relief across her face and a red blush to her cheeks. He had put her at ease with a quirk of his lips, but he couldn't do anything abut her embarrassment—and that's what it was, he figured. Embarrassment at being caught ogling a good looking man.

He had nothing to worry about with this girl.

One of the phones rang then and, as if she were saved by the bell, the employee grabbed at the phone, nearly knocked it of its hook and all but shrieked into the receiver, "Candlewick Inn. How can I help you?"

Henry let his attention drift away from the girl just in time to see Maggie pull a key out of the drawer she had opened below the desktop. There was an expression of confusion on her face as she looked down, though, and she was absently tapping the key against the palm of her free hand.

"That's funny," she said.

"What?"

"The key to Room 209 is missing."

Henry barely had to work to keep his features from betraying him. It wasn't too hard for him to knit his brow together or turn his lips down into a slight frown. He kept his voice even, his whole expression nonchalant. "That's Abby's room," he pointed out unnecessarily.

"I know," Maggie murmured, her eyes still on the row of keys below. "Henry, you did bring back the spare key last night, didn't you?"

"Oh, um, yeah. I dropped it off with the kid at the desk after I fetched Trish's gift."

"I should've known." He couldn't miss the relief that flooded her voice. No doubt it was easier for her to believe Henry Dunn than to even think that any element of her inn could pass her by unnoticed. "That Todd Burke… I swear, if it doesn't have long legs and a big bosom, he couldn't care less."

Then, with a bump of her hip, she closed the drawer; with that gesture, she dropped the subject. Instead, holding the key across the front desk and out to Henry, she announced, "Here you go."

Henry took the key from her. "What's this?"

"Most of the cabins out back are leased by summer tourists and weekend visitors. I happen to have a couple free this week, not nearly enough for the whole wedding party, but I think there's one that would be just perfect for you."

"Wow, Maggie. Thanks." Henry pocketed the key, genuinely pleased with her help. "You know you're wonderful, don't you? Absolutely wonderful."

The grin she wore in response was a smug one as she bypassed Henry's compliments and explained precisely what cabin would be his for the rest of the week. After giving him directions and asking him to let her know if the cleaning job wasn't up to snuff, Maggie shuffled out from behind the front desk and, like the busy bee she was, buzzed back out the entryway. Her phone was back in hand before the outside swallowed her up.

The employee was still occupied on the Candlewick phone, making arrangements for a trip later that fall. Henry almost wanted to tell the girl not to waste her time. After Saturday, the island would be his; no one but him and Abby would remain behind to live on Harper's Island. There was no point in making reservations for a trip that could never come to pass.

But he didn't. Impressed with himself, he nodded at the girl—the embarrassment seemed to return as her face turned red again and she stammered into the receiver—before heading off into the heart of the inn.

Now that he had a key to his own cabin for the week, Henry thought it would be best if he grabbed his luggage and moved it out of the room that now belonged to Trish. She was the one who thought it would be best and, the more he dwelled on their nighttime separation, the more he felt like he agreed with her.

However, just as he traversed down the hall that led to his former room and turned the corner that would lead him further down the second floor, a familiar profile stopped him dead in his tracks. With her bangs falling in her eyes and her head bowed as she struggled to fit her room key in the lock of her door, Abby was standing only a few steps in front of him.

Like always, just the sight of her—the way they were so close—froze him for a heartbeat, stealing his breath and causing his breath to quicken. The urge to touch her, to reach out and grab her again, was overwhelming and it took almost everything Henry had to rein himself in.

She didn't notice him coming up behind her, as occupied as she was, and Henry was grateful for the brief reprieve. He needed those precious few seconds to gather his wits, gather his sense and remember just who he was, where they were and just where Abby was supposed to be.

_The scavenger hunt…_

Crossing his arms over his chest, an amused expression dancing across his face, he shook his head. "You are _so _busted."

Abby gave a little jump, a small start as she nearly dropped her key, before she turned around. "Hey… um… I was just—"

"Skipping out on the scavenger hunt?" Henry offered, interrupting her feeble attempts at coming up with an excuse. He felt his eyebrow rise in amusement; he couldn't find it in him to be disappointed that she ditched the wedding festivities he himself thought ridiculous. Instead, he felt just a little hopeful and pleased that he stumbled upon her on her own.

"No," she said, obviously lying through her teeth. He knew it, and she knew he knew it. Still, she added quite unconvincingly, "I… um… finished it."

"The whole thing?"

"Yep. I won." Abby was fighting a smile. "Yeah, and I answered all the questions. Way too easy."

"Really?" Biting his lip, Henry didn't want Abby to see how happy her silly lies and her unnecessary attempts to spare his feelings made him. For the first time since Reverend Fain's head hit the ground rolling, he felt as if things were finally going his way again.

But, as much as he would've liked to, he knew he shouldn't keep the charade up any longer, and he said knowingly, "So, the whole team quit, or just you?"

Abby knew when the jig was up. "The whole team," she admitted sheepishly.

He shook his head, laughing softly. "I knew it. Damn it!"

"No, it was fun," she hurriedly added before trying to explain her motives in giving up. "And then Shane showed up…"

Henry's good humor evaporated immediately. _Shane_. There was another mention of the jerk local he unfortunately knew all too well. His face went dark and his voice was all seriousness and concern when he asked, "Did he give you guys a hard time?"

"Ah, you know, just Shane being Shane."

Shane being Shane… Henry didn't know what bothered him more: the vague answer that meant Abby didn't want to confide in him, or the revelation that Shane was butting in where he didn't belong and wasn't wanted. It was one thing, he thought, for Shane to give J.D. trouble down at the Cannery. But for him to bother Abby? He'd gone too far this time.

The way he saw it, Shane Pierce just found himself an enemy in Henry Dunn.

_

* * *

_

_- stress, 10.14.09_


	9. crackle, part three

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. Any dialogue from the second episode, "Crackle", included is used only to further the story.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

* * *

**ix. crackle, part three;**

The cabin Maggie Krell assigned him was a beautiful one, impeccably cleaned regardless of her concerns, cozily furnished and even just a bit remote from the main inn. If it wasn't for the fact that it would be one of the first places checked if things went wrong, it could have been the perfect home for his happily-ever-after with Abby.

Not, he told himself, that anything _would_ go wrong. Henry Dunn just prided himself on always being prepared.

It was on the edge of the trees, the first in a line of many. He had seen Thomas Wellington out on the porch of a cabin a few down from his when he arrived and couldn't help but shake his head. He should've known that Trish's father would convince Maggie to rent him a cabin while the rest of the guests stayed in the much smaller rooms inside the Candlewick.

Henry appreciated the solitude anyway, the distance and the space that would be his for the next couple of days. If there was one thing, however, that would have made it even better it was if he had agreed to let Abby come down to the cabin with him.

It nearly killed him to leave her alone outside room 209. For reasons he could fully understand—he hadn't forgotten his quick and secret foray into her bedroom with Wakefield's article in hand—he could tell that she wasn't all that interested in spending the afternoon by herself in there. She innocently invited him in; he regrettably had to refuse. He didn't feel comfortable entering the room after betraying her trust—besides, as he explained to her, he was anxious enough to see the new cabin Maggie had just given him the key to.

He wondered if she would ask why he was moving out of his old room but, though he thought Abby appeared curious, she didn't ask. Forever following every letter, every idea of his precious plan, he purposely neglected to tell her that the new cabin was for him and him alone. There was no way he could let anyone—not even Abby—think that he was anything less than head over heels for Trish. The time would come when she knew why Henry really could bear to be separated from Trish… it just wasn't time yet.

Still, for someone who knew her as well as Henry knew her, it was easy to see she was disappointed. Or, maybe he was just so desperate not to let any opportunities pass him by that he had to invite her to come by the cabin once he was settled. Abby looked delighted at the prospect, her dark eyes lighting up in that way he always adored and was seeing again for the first time since she arrived back on Harper's Island.

When she graciously accepted, Henry had struggled to rein in his urge to reach out and pull her close to him, to smell her hair and feel her warmth against his chest. He felt empty without her, aching to sling his arm around her waist, tell her he'll always be there for her and maybe even kiss her neck like he'd wanted to do for too long now. But he didn't. There would be time enough later for all that.

There would be time enough when they had forever.

So, accepting her promise to come visit him later, Henry had finally torn himself from Abby's lovely company and gone to the room he shared with Trish the night before for his luggage and anything else he would need now that he would be sleeping alone. There wasn't much but, from experience, Henry knew that Trish was a bit of a pillow hog and, feeling a touch spiteful, he took all the extras for his new bed.

Her cell phone was still resting on the nightstand. He came very close to also taking that with him before deciding to leave it behind. He wasn't sure if she was forgetting the phone on purpose or if she still hadn't gone back to the room—trying not to picture Hunter Jennings' smarmy grin, Henry pretended that it didn't matter to him in the least what Trish was up to.

Besides, he knew that he would have enough to answer to when Trish discovered he'd followed through on her casual suggestion and moved out of their room. He didn't want to have to explain how her phone got mixed up with his belongings when he left, too.

Keeping up his charade, Henry made sure to leave a note behind on the bed in case Trish returned to find him gone before he had the chance to tell her about the cabin himself. He told her how great of an idea it was in afternoon's light, and how Maggie had also agreed before jotting down the room number and a seemingly heartfelt—if entirely meaningless—invitation for Trish to meet him by the cabin when she got his note.

Between the prospect of Abby coming down and Trish, Henry knew which visit he was anticipating more…

Unpacking didn't take as long as he thought it might've, with him enjoying the realization that it was like he was actually, _finally _moving to the island to stay. Henry kept his empty luggage out in one of the far corners just in case it became necessary to get out of there quickly. The extra pillows were stacked high, begging him to lie down and have a small nap.

He was almost tempted to listen to them.

After his late meeting with his father and his early rising that morning Henry was tired. He wanted nothing more then than to just lie down and close his eyes if only for a second—but he didn't. He had the feeling that if he fell asleep now, nothing short of someone being murdered right outside his room would wake him up in time for him to make it to the bonfire Maggie organized for after the scavenger hunt ended. And, as much as he would've liked to, he couldn't miss that.

But how should he fill the time between now and then?

He could honestly say he had no idea where Trish was, and Abby was surely still in her room. Despite her confession that her entire team had quit the scavenger hunt, Henry hadn't seen any of the wedding guests since they all set off that morning. His belongings were tucked neatly in his new cabin, and he didn't expect to hear from his father for some time. Which still begged the question: what should he do now?

There wasn't much for him to do regarding the plan just yet. He left his meeting with Wakefield with only the death of Reverend Fain in mind, and that was already done. He _could_ go and prepare for Thomas Wellington's murder by rigging the light switch in the church, but it didn't seem like the right time to accomplish that just yet. Whether the reverend was alive to welcome the guests to the church or not, the First Church of Harper's Island was one of the four stops on the scavenger hunt. It would be next to impossible to set up the head spade to fall during the wedding rehearsal with everyone poking around.

Henry frowned. Thinking of the scavenger hunt and thinking of his ennui made his thoughts turn (as usual) back to Abby and the reason she gave as to why she gave up on the morning's activities. Maybe, he thought, it wasn't any aspect he had discussed with Wakefield, but Henry decided it would be best if he did what he could to put Shane Pierce in line. He couldn't have the ornery local messing with his family because he was bitter that he didn't find Harper's Island to be the magical place Henry thought it was.

Though it might mean he missed Abby's impending visit—she _did_ promise—Henry found himself heading right out the front door of his cabin. Locking up behind him, he told himself that things would go more smoothly for everyone if none of his guests had to worry about Shane giving them a hard time. Henry had been annoyed last night to hear that Shane and J.D. had already gotten into fight. Picking on Abby in the Cannery was the last straw.

He knew exactly where to find Shane, too. With the Cannery booked for the scavenger hunt—and it still being too early for even Shane to slink down to the bar for a drink—there was only one other place he could be. And, if it happened that Henry got the chance to finally run into Jimmy again after all this time… well, that was just a bonus.

Henry had wondered last night just how he could have ever forgotten about Jimmy Mance and, as he walked purposely in the direction towards the docks, he thought he might just understand. When Charlie Mills banished his own daughter from her—_their—_home, the only upside Henry ever found was the distance that suddenly appeared between Abby and her wretched boyfriend. When Abby, living in Los Angeles with her grandmother, made it seem like she forgot all about Jimmy and her old life, Henry—her kind, shoulder to cry on best friend—was only too happy to oblige her.

Not that he was foolish enough to believe that she really _had_ forgotten him. Jimmy, as much as Henry hated to admit it, was Abby's first love (apart from him, of course). Like he would never truly be able to banish Trish from his mind when she stopped being so useful, Jimmy's memory still lingered, like a fungus that wouldn't die.

Henry had thought, however, that he could get through this entire week without Abby seeing her old flame—since it would be that much harder for her when Henry did get the chance to kill him—but he knew that that was out of the question now. Just the way Abby said his name last night by the fireside told Henry that Jimmy would be far more trouble than he was worth, and even then he wasn't worth anything more than pity and disdain in Henry's quite generous opinion. What was worse was that, now she had met him, it would be a rash man's actions to kill him right away. She would know, she would understand _everything_ then, and he couldn't have that. Not yet, at least.

It was one secret it hurt him to keep, but he kept it nevertheless.

So, no matter how much he told himself that he wanted to take the matter of Shane Pierce into his own hands, he couldn't deny his ulterior motives. He saw how the memory and reappearance of the fisherman had affected Abby after a chance meeting at the Cannery. He would be lying if he told himself he didn't care what Jimmy thought about Abby after all these years.

The walk to the edge of the island was reviving, brisk and invigorating as it was. Just being on Harper's Island had the ability to keep him calm. It was as if a piece of him that was always missing when he was in Tacoma or Seattle suddenly settled back into place once he was home again.

_Home_…

As he got closer to his chosen destination, he saw the same faded Shelton S Bay sign he remembered from his summers on the island, and the rocks upon rocks that surrounded the docks. The wooden planks groaned familiarly under his weight, like a greeting to a long lost friend. The salty sea air reminded Henry of a time when things weren't so damn complicated.

There was a small white fishing boat moored at the end of the dock: the Sea Jay. Henry recognized the dark-haired fisherman busy spraying down the deck immediately, his hands clenching into tight fists at first sight of him. There was no sign of Shane anywhere, but Henry barely registered his absence. He had his sights set on Jimmy alone.

He gave himself a quick shake, relaxing, letting his hands unfold and his arms hang loosely at his sides. This would, he knew, would only work with a carefree countenance and an interested, friendly expression. After a moment's hesitation, he took a deep breath and instantly became the Henry Dunn he was certain Jimmy expected him to be.

"Permission to come aboard?" he called cheerily.

And there he stood: Jimmy Mance, the only real rival he'd ever had for Abby's attention. In his silly rubber boots, an old, worn navy blue thermal shirt and a pair of jeans that reeked of fish no matter how many times they were washed, Jimmy lifted his head in surprise at Henry's voice.

Unlike Trish, Jimmy was no skilled actor. He wore his heart out on his sleeve for everyone to see and, just then, Henry could see that Jimmy was less than thrilled to see him coming.

Good.

Jimmy recovered nicely, shooting Henry a fake grin and letting his hose fall to the side. He went to turn off the water pump, but he didn't say a word.

Henry took Jimmy's silence to mean permission was granted—not that it was needed, or that he would've listened if the fisherman grew a spine and said no—and brazenly stepped aboard the small vessel. Then, because Jimmy still hadn't spoken, he said appreciatively about the boat, "Nice. This is yours?"

He was impressed at how casual, how well-meaning he sounded. But it wasn't a surprise. Henry was an expert at making small talk with anyone. After spending so many years with Trish and her family, he had to be.

"Yeah," Jimmy said, the pride evident in his voice. It was a casual movement as he nudged the hose even closer to the boat's edge and, turning toward the white stack on the other side, grabbed a pile of rope. Easily, he tossed it right at Henry—who, instinctively primed to be competitive, caught it just as easily. "Finally ponied up, got it last spring."

The feel of the rope sitting comfortably in his hands, the hemp tightly woven and salt-stained from the ocean water, had the power of freezing time and turning the hands of the clock back for Henry. Suddenly he was sixteen again, seventeen, spending his summers on a boat just like this one, being best friends with Abby and hoping, praying that one day she would see how much better he'd be for her than dumb old Jimmy Mance.

Like they had a mind or a memory of their own, remembering those days and the testosterone-laced jealousy of being the unknown other man—and Trish's boyfriend at the same time—he began to coil the rope up, looping it and wrapping it as if it was his dingy little boat he was tending to.

"I'm jealous," he said. Even as the words were come out Henry knew he meant them—but he also knew that he wasn't talking about the boat.

"I hear you're doing just fine."

"I'm doing okay." The fake smile and the caution in Jimmy's dark eyes didn't go by unnoticed but, as the corners of his own mouth turned up in a genuine grin, Henry could only feel pleasure and excitement at the direction his life was going and what he had to look forward to in the days to come.

And then understanding that the two of them were thinking about two different things came to him and he blurted out, "Oh, you mean the wedding."

Jimmy turned his attention to his brush as he started to scrub the deck. "Let's just say that not every deckhand ends up marrying a princess."

Hmm, Henry wondered, maybe he wasn't the only one who was jealous...

He scoffed then, recognized that was the wrong reaction to Jimmy's comment, and quickly tried to cover it up with a soft, strangled laugh. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for him to cut right to the chase. "Hey, listen, um… I wanted to come down here just to make sure we're still cool."

"Sure. Why wouldn't we be?"

Why? Because Abby still loves you, Henry silently countered. Because she thinks of you in a different way than she thinks of me. Because you're a local and I'm just a summer guy. Because—

"Well, my brother and Shane got into it last night," he said out loud.

"Okay. That's been going on since we were kids." Jimmy looked amused, as if he found Henry's concern funny. Henry wished he could drop the rope, reach out and smack that smirk of his right off Jimmy's face. "Come on. That's never affected you and me."

Henry swallowed back his annoyance, replacing it with his good guy smile. He had to maintain control. He had to remember why he was here. "Still. I had a talk with J.D. earlier, asked him to cool it 'til after the wedding."

Jimmy was silent for a second. He picked up a second length of rope and, with practiced hands, started to coil it even faster than Henry. "If you're asking me to talk to Shane…" This time his laugh was genuine, as was the winning smile on his face. Henry hated it even more than the smirk. "That's not gonna change anything. It's just the way he is. Come on, you worked with him. You know how he is."

"Yeah." Well, Henry mused, that went as well as he could've expected. But, at least it could never be said he didn't try to warn Shane… "Um, so, listen, we're having a party tonight."

Jimmy finished up with his rope first, looping it before tying it with a loose knot. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. A bonfire, down at Harmon Beach, should be fun. If you and Shane want to come by, hang out… we'll have a lot of food, cold beer…"

"I don't know. Tonight's going to be tough."

There it was, that heart on his sleeve again. Jimmy looked away, but not before Henry could read every expression, every thought written across his face. No doubt Abby would be there—but a festivity for Henry's upcoming wedding was not the place he wanted to see her again. It would only be another reminder.

Which, of course, was one reason why Henry made sure to invite him, but he wasn't about to admit to that. So, taking his time now to finish tying off his own rope, he said, "Okay. Just wanted to invite you for old time's sake." Then, with a small shrug, handed Jimmy back the rope.

"Appreciate it."

Feeling his work was done and his presence no longer necessary (or particularly wanted), Henry took the opportunity to leave the _Sea Jay_. He took one, two steps down the docks before he paused. Maybe, he though, rubbing a little salt in Jimmy's old wounds would make him feel a little better about his time spent.

He didn't even turn around. "Abby'll be there," he offered, tossing her name out like bait to try and snare the fisherman on his dangling hook.

Jimmy's sigh was quiet but not so quiet that Henry's cocked ear didn't pick it up. Jimmy shouldered the rope as if it was nothing compared to the weight already on his mind as he frowned. "Like I said: I don't know."

Henry couldn't stop his grin from slipping out behind his façade. He was right. He _did _feel better.

* * *

The grin was short-lived.

Feeling much lighter than before, and with a spring in his step that had been missing for most of the morning, he left the docks and its annoying fisherman behind him in favor of returning to his newly rented cabin. He'd held out the hope that, when he got back, Abby might be there waiting for him and, for just a heartbeat, when the doorknob turned easily under his hand and the door popped open without a push, that's exactly what he thought had happened. Too anxious to spend more time with her, it never even occurred to him that the door should've been locked.

But no dark-haired beauty was waiting for him inside; not even the brunette he'd expected to see instead. Which was odd, considering those two were the only ones—apart from Maggie, that is—who knew that this cabin belonged to him for the rest of the week.

Abby was too considerate and too kind to barge in and enter the cabin without her host to receive her; knowing Trish, she would've made herself at home immediately. Because of that very reason, it was his fiancée's name he called first.

"Trish?" He looked around again before calling for her a second time, and then a third.

There was no answer. Just about to take a further look around the empty cabin himself, Henry dropped his gaze in time to notice the slippery wet crimson trail that started in the middle of the floor. It continued towards the closed door across the way, a straight line as if something—_someone_—had been struck down and dragged to the bathroom.

Henry's heart skipped a beat. Just like his worries from that morning, when he thought his father might've gotten ahead of himself and gone after Trish, he suddenly feared for the worst. What if… what if Abby _had _let herself in? What if…

He could feel the way the nervous beads of sweat popped up along his brow, the way his breathing ran shallow, the way his face twisted into a fearful expression. Slowly, more than wary of what he would find behind the closed bathroom door, he reached for the handle. Like the front entrance, it was barely closed and it pushed open easily. Taking a deep breath and praying for the best, he crossed the threshold—

—and found only _more _blood.

The trail continued across the tiles, the red staining the ground, dripping up the side of the formerly pristine porcelain bathtub, a grisly lead to an unwelcome scene. Henry felt as if he had swallowed something too big to go down; his breath hitched as he tiptoed closer. He hesitated on the brink, not really wanting to look but knowing he had to, before leaning forward and peering over at the floor of the tub.

There was a deer head in his bathtub.

A _deer head _in his _bathtub_.

It was like a sucker punch to his gut, the dead glassy eyes staring back up at him, the pool of blood welling up underneath. It wasn't human, but that made the scene even worse. Severed from its body and left behind as some sick sort of joke or… or even warning, someone, some sick bastard, had placed a deer head in his bathtub.

Henry Dunn was a murderer; he had accepted that fact long ago. He killed because he had to, making sure every death had a purpose. Whether the kills were used to better him at his craft or to ensure he got what he wanted in the end, he barely felt any remorse for those who had to die. But, if there was one thing he never did, it was go after someone who didn't deserve it.

What in the world could a _deer_ have done to deserve this? Better yet: what did _he_ do to deserve this?

It made him sick to find such a display set up for him. And it wasn't the blood, either. Reverend Fain bled far more than that and he hadn't batted an eyelash. Maybe, he thought, it was because it was a defenseless animal slaughtered to send him a message, or maybe it was because he was tensed to discover Abby in the scene, but Henry felt the heady anger bubble and rise up until his hands were shaking and his fists were clenched tight.

Someone would pay for this, he vowed. And cutting off their head would be too quick of a death for them…

Still, he couldn't help but find it ironic that, after decapitating the old reverend that morning and leaving the body for his father to dispose of, it was up to him to find a way to get rid of a deer head. If he wasn't so busy fuming over the sight and stewing over who could have done this to him—who and _why_—he might've even spared a dry chuckle over the circumstances.

There was no laughing, no grins, as Henry turned his back and the tub. His mind already racing, his eyes scanning the small bathroom for something to use to get rid of the head, Henry knew he had to clean up the mess before he could even start planning revenge on the deserving fool who did this to him.

He was like a robot, his actions mechanic. Not wanting to ruin his good purple shirt he stripped down to his white undershirt, vaguely angry that he would be throwing another shirt away that day. Luckily for him, Maggie's cleaning staff had left behind some of their supplies; Henry was grateful for their mistake. He borrowed a fistful of garbage bags—from experience, he knew he would need more than were probably there—and a pair of yellow rubber gloves to keep his hands clean. And then he got to work.

Lost in his thoughts, lost in his anger and lost in the plans of how he would get revenge against whoever had done this to him, he was so focused on the gruesome task of cleaning up the spilt blood that he didn't hear the front door swinging the rest of the way open or the soft, tentative footfalls of his forgotten guest.

"Hello?"

But he did hear her voice when she called, and his heart recognized it before his fury-clouded mind had. It thumped-thumped against his chest and he froze, suddenly determined not to let her see the mess he was cleaning up.

"Abby?" he called, drawing to his feet and popping his head out of the open bathroom door. It was her all right, lingering just inside the cabin. Dropping the garbage bag he was working with down under the sink, he tried to hide what he was doing. "Hey."

He didn't do a very good job.

"Everything okay?" she asked him.

Henry yanked his gloves off, added them to the mess on the floor and quickly stepped into the cabin's foyer. Pulling the door shut behind him, blocking off the view, he hesitated under the curious gaze of Abby's dark eyes. "Uh, yeah," he started before changing his mind and changing his answer, "… no." He couldn't lie to her. Still shaken from the idea that it could've been her body, her blood all over the floor, Henry couldn't find it in himself to lie to her anymore. He shook his head. "No," he admitted. "Someone put a deer head in our tub."

"What?"

His anger was like a rush to the head and he only just managed to remember what lies and untruths he'd already led her to believe; he was angry, but he wasn't irrational. "Can you imagine if Trish would've come back and found this instead of me?" he asked. Even his voice was still shaking. "Uh… listen, I need to finish cleaning this up before she gets back."

He felt guilty, hurrying her out like that, but he had invited Trish down. He definitely didn't need her swanning in and stumbling across such a macabre scene, think—_know_—that something was wrong and start asking questions. No matter what it took he had to keep up appearances. Nothing was allowed to go wrong. Nothing _would _go wrong.

Abby looked troubled but she didn't leave. Frozen to her spot, she watched as he turned away from her. A pause and then: "Jimmy and Shane were hunting deer this morning."

It struck Henry what she had given him apart from just offering up those two names. She'd given him her loyalty, siding with him over the local boys she knew growing up. When it came down to protecting Jimmy Mance and Shane Pierce or helping Henry, she chose him.

But he could barely appreciate it. Her admission was like a lit match put to the tip of dynamite Henry had worked up the entire time he spent cleaning up the blood: it took a few seconds for the fuse to burn and then he exploded. His back had been to her, his hand poised to reach for the handle, but all that changed. He froze for a moment, the fuse caught, and then he let it ignite.

Balling his hand back up into an angry fist, he reared back and punched the bathroom door with as much forced as he could muster. The blow echoed behind him as he spun around. Any control he'd managed to hold onto had vanished in a puff of smoke. "Son of a bitch!" he cried. "J.D. was right."

Henry was halfway to the door when Abby realized where he was going—and how angry he would be when he found Shane and Jimmy. She reached out to stop him, touching his arms with a feather-light grip. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, Henry, hang on. Let me talk to them. The last thing you need is a fight with those guys."

"No," he argued through gritted teeth, "the last thing I need is a deer head in my bathtub."

"No, please… please, let me help. Take care of _that_ before Trish sees it. I'll go talk to Jimmy."

He didn't trust himself to answer her. Breathing heavily out through his nose, he let her think he agreed with her suggestion—even if he thought it was the worst thing he'd heard all day. They were both wrong, he fumed. The last thing he needed was to give her another excuse to go find Jimmy.

There was nothing he could do, though, not without showing her more of his true intentions than he felt she should know at that point. Still furious, he waited until she ran out the door before he whirled around and punched the bathroom door a second time. He wanted to follow her, to stop her, but that was undoubtedly out of the question. So, blood rushing to his ears and pain rushing to his hand, he went back to the mess.

_Shane_… he should've known. It was so obvious. He was a local; Maggie Krell had seen him grown up on the island. If she was willing to give Henry a key to get into Abby's room, what would stop her from telling him where he could find anyone else? Him… J.D… any of the guests. She wouldn't even have to give him a key, either. There were a couple of tricks Shane knew to get around stubborn, pesky things like locked doors; Henry had even seen him show off one or two when they were kids.

And who's to say that he was even going after Henry? It didn't matter. But, thinking like Shane, it made sense: if he couldn't get at J.D., why not go after the brother? He couldn't have slipped inside the Candlewick with a bloody deer head, but it only took seconds to break inside a cabin and leave his cocky warning behind.

Perfect sense.

Henry felt the incensed growl build up in the back of his throat. Without anyone to witness it, he let the violent sound out, huffing and grumbling as an unexpected snag in his plan made things even more difficult for him. It was one thing for Shane to pick a fight with J.D.; another for him to go after Abby. He'd tried to make peace, only to run into Jimmy.

Well, at least he knew why Shane wasn't down at the docks earlier…

He kicked aside the garbage bag full of bloody towels and scattered the strewn gloves across the floor. It took him a few tough seconds to get his temper back in check, his anger back under control. Then, when his breathing was even and his hands not so itchy to wring Shane's neck right out, he dared a glance down. Henry looked at where the deer's head had laid in the tub one last time and made himself a promise.

For Shane Pierce, he didn't have to maintain his appearances. He wanted everyone to know just how much he hated that bastard.

* * *

**End Note**: I've been working on this chapter nonstop for the last two weeks. It's the one I've been waiting for - Jimmy and Henry in the same scene, *squee* - and it had to work just so. Plus the first scare that Henry didn't have a hand in... gotta love it. Or, at least, I hope you did. It was another lengthly one but, since I'm going to be focusing on my NaNo novel for the next 30 days, I thought it should be. Hopefully I'll finish before that so I can get cracking on the last part of Crackle. Until then... Happy Halloween! Wish me luck with NaNoWriMo ;) (if anyone else is doing it, my username is: cursetheflame - let's be buddies!)

_- stress, 10.31.09_


	10. crackle, part four

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and are only used for fan related purposes. Any dialogue from the second episode, "Crackle", included is used only to further the story.

* * *

**Inside a Broken Mind**

* * *

**x. crackle, part four;**

It wasn't long after Abby left that Trish found him at the cabin. Henry had just enough time to finish cleaning up the bathroom, scrub his hands, wash his face, and put his purple shirt back on as if nothing had happened before she appeared in the foyer. Just like he expected, Trish never even stopped to knock.

He felt his face assume the familiar expression of happiness at finding her there; the grin stretched his face and his muscles gave a small twitch before he was certain he could pass for the Henry Dunn Trish was looking for in the cabin. His back was still tensed, his hands poised to fold back into fists, but he exhaled—one short sound—and tried to leave his anger and his anxiety behind him. He refused to let her know any of what had transpired that morning or that afternoon. Regardless of his plans, some part of Henry couldn't bring him to ruin their wedding week.

Especially since, of course, he had no inclination to actually allow her a wedding _day_.

She left the front door open behind her, her arms folded almost demurely over the waist of her polka-dotted dress. Trish was looking around the small room, looking everywhere, at everything before her eyes finally landed on him. He could see then that she was glancing at him curiously. He widened his smile, trying to force a welcoming grace to his features.

"Hey, honey, you finally made it," he said brightly, opening his arms even wider as he took three big steps, confident steps toward her. "I was getting worried you wouldn't find my note."

"I did," she murmured, her pace hesitant, her steps careful. Trish glanced around the room one more time, bit the bottom of her lip for a moment, and then blurted out: "Henry, what are you doing here?" She sounded confused, unsure. Considering this was Trish Wellington, that was as big a red flag as any. Henry felt one of his eyebrows rise, but he worked to keep his voice light, playful.

"You said you wanted separate rooms, remember?"

"Oh." She blinked, dropping her arms then as if she was dropping the shield she'd carried with her inside. "I did, didn't I?"

"I can move back to the inn with you if you want," he offered at once, already crossing his fingers that she wouldn't take him up on it.

"No, no," she said hurriedly, "that's fine." She regained some of her composure, flashing him one of her winning smiles. It barely made any impression on him anymore. "I like the idea of our wedding night being more special."

"That's why I did it," he told her. There was still something about the way she so readily agreed to the situation that made him a bit leery. Cocking his head to the side, examining her with his eyes slightly narrowed, he tried his best to sound sincere as he asked, "Hey, Trish, are you okay?"

She sighed. "It's just… the wedding, right? Maggie caught me earlier and—"

"Say no more," Henry interrupted with a small laugh, falling back into the old, comfortable, known routine as he straightened up and closed the gap between them. He reached out his arm to her, looping it over her shoulder and pulling her into his embrace. "I think I finally understand."

Trish immediately relaxed. He gave the impression that he was as calm, as relaxed as she was, but his mind was running a mile a minute. Henry Dunn was, as much as he tried to deny it, very much a suspicious character. Trish's hesitance had not gone by unnoticed, nor the amount of time that had elapsed since he saw her last.

Henry may not know _where_ she'd been, but he was pretty sure he knew _who _she'd been there with…

Leaning in to him, Trish cast her glance around again, really seeing the room rather than trying to avoid his gaze. Which was a good thing. Just the mere thought of Hunter Jennings brought Henry's scowl to life; in that instant, he wasn't too confident he could hide his worries from her.

"It's a nice place, Henry," she said at last, oblivious to his stormy expression, "I really like it."

Controlling his jealousy and his fears, Henry managed to ask quite calmly, "Did you want to stay here instead? I can move my stuff back to the room…"

"That's okay. I like the room for me," Trish said hurriedly. Henry felt his suspicion simmer even faster. He was quickly reaching the boiling point and she had _no_ idea. "You should think of this as your bachelor pad for the week and," she added, her voice dropping as she adopted the sultry tone he knew so well, "now that I know where it is, I can always visit again." She tilted her head back, inviting Henry to kiss her which he did, even if his mind was somewhere else entirely.

He had to get _her_ mind back to the matters at hand. Like him, and how they were supposed to get married, and how she needed to play her part in this whole thing if Henry was ever going to get his happily ever after.

"I'm so glad you came down," he lied, though he_ was_ grateful her propensity for being late meant she missed the whole deer head debacle. He could only imagine how she would've reacted to find him elbow deep in blood and animal pieces. "Between the scavenger hunt and everything else, I missed you."

"Ready to taste some cakes again?" she teased, sticking the tip of her tongue out between her front teeth. "I'll never get enough of that chocolate."

"Possibly. There's still some time before the bonfire."

Trish's smile dipped and she sighed again. "Not enough." With a little push she moved away from Henry; following her cue, he reluctantly let go of her. She turned away slightly and he cursed inwardly. It was that much harder to discover what she was hiding when she refused to look him in the face. Oh, he knew she was hiding something, and he had a good idea what, but this was a hitch in the plan he hadn't anticipated.

If it took every ounce of cunning and charm Henry Dunn possessed, he had to keep Trish Wellington enamored with him—and oblivious of any other intentions he might have.

Lacing his tone with concern, he asked softly, "You're sure you're fine, right? You still want to get married… here… on the island? No cold feet or anything?"

Trish's head nearly snapped, she turned to look over her shoulder and straight at Henry so quickly. A small, sincere smile flew back to her face as if called, even if it wavered for a split second, and she let out a tiny purr of a chuckle. She laid her hand possessively on his chest. "Of course I do. I love you."

"I love you, too," he parroted, overlaying her slender with his.

"I'm glad we got that settled," Trish murmured, planting a quick kiss on Henry's knuckle. "We love each other very much and, in less than one week, I will be Mrs. Henry Dunn."

There was something in the way she said that that made his suspicions bubble up and nearly over. It didn't sound at all like she was reassuring him. No, he suspected, Trish was trying to reassure _herself_ of that fact. He bit back his frown. It had to be Hunter Jennings, he was sure of it. He just wasn't precisely sure how he was going to get rid of the bastard.

It was so frustrating. His aim to remind Trish what she was doing on Harper's Island, and who she was there with, wasn't going as smoothly as he would've liked. She said the right words, but there was a hesitance to them that made them unbelievable. It was a programmed response, like she knew what she had to do but, suddenly, she was questioning it herself. A faraway look in her brown eyes and a frown she couldn't hide… Henry could read her like a book, but he didn't like what the story was telling him.

Clearing his throat, he tried his best to keep her mind from straying from him. "So, the future Mrs. Dunn, what would you like to do now? I haven't even checked out the bedroom yet…"

There was a clock on the mantle and, as if her eyes were drawn to it, she glanced at it. "I'm sorry, Henry, I really am, but I have got to get back to the inn. Lucy's feeling a little lonely without her boyfriend and I promised I'd get ready for the bonfire with her."

He chuckled though he didn't mean it. "Gigi's not good enough company?"

Trish gave him a light pat on his chest before shaking her head and purposely ignoring Henry's remark. Even if Lucy Daramour was convinced that her little white lap dog was people, it didn't mean everyone else did. She knew Henry found it ridiculous that she brought the rat-like creature all the way to Harper's Island while her boyfriend, Ryan, stayed in Seattle but she didn't push it. Instead, she said, "It'll be dark soon. Why don't you shower and get ready yourself and I'll meet you on the beach in a little bit, hmm?"

Henry froze, his dimpled smile staying in place as his thoughts started to race. Had he missed some blood? He thought he was fresh and clean and every trace of his busy morning erased. "Shower?"

She nodded and waved her hand underneath her nose. "Uh, yeah, Henry. You smell like you took a bath in bleach."

The relief was sudden and he wondered why he'd even worried at all. He knew what he was doing—and was it any surprise the smell of cleaning products lingered? He had just spent the last hour cleaning up after a deer's head in the bathtub! For a second he debated if whether or not he should tell Trish about the grisly sight before remembering why he'd rushed to clean it up in the first place. The less she knew about matters such as that, the better.

Instead, he said, "The bathroom was a little iffy. I thought I would give it a quick scrub in case we wanted to use it later."

Glossing over another of his suggestive comments—which was both unlike him and her, but he was testing her and she was _failing_—Trish wrinkled her nose before lifting it up in the air. "You should complain to Maggie. It's her job."

Sometimes the entitlement of the Wellington family was just too much. Maggie Krell was going through hell to put this wedding together, risking her life though she didn't know it, setting the scene for Henry and his father's grand plan… but Trish thought she should spend her evenings scrubbing tubs, or standing over her maintenance staff as they did. Of course.

Rather than argue though, he was slightly impressed when Trish's careless words gave him an idea. "You know what, honey?" he said, already slipping his hand inside his picket to draw out his cell phone. "Maybe I should do that. Do you have her number?"

He knew she did. After the hundreds and thousands of phone calls Trish and the off-island wedding planners made to Maggie to discuss details like what direction the chairs should be seated at the reception or what color the napkins should be—and they could never agree at any rate—Henry knew Maggie's number was ingrained in Trish's brain. She rattled it off immediately and Henry, memorizing it instantly in case he needed it later, made sure to plug it right into his phone before he pressed dial.

Henry held the phone to his ear, listening to the ring and wishing that Trish would take the hint and go. She hung back for a second before seemingly making a decision. Standing on her tiptoes, she laid a gentle kiss on Henry's cheek, murmured something about seeing him soon and, in a cloud of her favorite perfume, vanished back through the open door. Henry waited until she was gone before striding forward and closing the door behind her.

Just as the front door snapped closed, Maggie finally picked up on her end. "Hello?" She sounded slightly hesitant and more than a little out of breath. No doubt he had caught her in the middle of some ridiculous festivity preparations.

"Maggie, hi. It's Henry."

"Oh, Henry! My goodness, I didn't know the number and I wasn't sure if… anyway, what can I do for you? The cabin's fine, I hope?" The hesitance faded to recognition before professionalism took over. Already Henry knew that he had her right where he wanted her.

"It's perfect, but that's not why I'm calling. I… I need a favor. Do you think you could help me?"

"Anything for you, dear. Something for tonight?"

The stupid bonfire was on everyone's mind, it seemed, but that was the least of his worries. "No, no, nothing like that," he told her. "Actually, it's about one of our wedding guests. He never RSVP'd so we never booked a room for him but we think he might've decided to come after all. Do you think you could tell me if he's staying here at the inn with us? I know we booked the entire place but Trish got a message he was on his way and we were wondering where he was going to be for the week. She wasn't sure and I told her I'd try to find out."

There was a pause as Henry's hastily concocted story washed over Maggie. He could almost see her nodding to herself as she tried to work it all out. "What was his name?" she asked at last.

"Jennings. Hunter Jennings."

If the name of Trish's ex-boyfriend meant anything to her, Maggie didn't give it away with her voice. "The name's not a familiar one," she answered, "but I'll have a look into it as soon as I can. He may not be in my inn, but I could call around for you."

"Ah, thanks, Maggie. I knew I could count on you."

"No trouble at all, Henry… though…"

Maggie's afterthought of a "though" was nearly as bad as a whole-hearted "but". Henry's ears pricked up and, trying to sound indifferent, he murmured, "Hmm?"

"It's nothing… but, it's just, I was talking to Trish earlier. It's funny that she didn't mention another guest to me before."

"Wedding nerves, probably," Henry joked, though he was no longer smiling on his end. Maggie ought to be more careful, he decided. As of yet, her fate hung in the balance—he didn't care one way or another what happened to her as long as his aim of ridding Harper's Island of everyone but him and Abby came true—but it could quickly sway in the worse direction if she kept being so astute.

As if she could read his mind and knew the dark thoughts that lingered there, she agreed readily with his explanation. "Oh, certainly, certainly… I was even thinking to myself: now there goes one anxious bride." Maggie laughed, a cheerful tinkle of a laugh that, for no real reason, rubbed Henry the wrong way.

"Anxious?" he asked, only just managing to restrain himself from telling her to shut up already. "What do you mean, anxious?"

She kept on laughing and Henry found himself gritting his teeth as she said loftily, "I wouldn't worry, Henry, I couldn't tell you how many loyal wives I know were nervous brides-to-be. And I'll definitely let you know if I turn anything up about your missing guest."

"Wha—oh, thanks again, Maggie. I really appreciate it."

They said their goodbyes then, Henry barely paying attention to what she was saying as their conversation ended. Something about the scavenger hunt being a success—he tried not to scoff too loudly at that—and that she would see him at the bonfire later. Echoing the sentiments, he was only too ready to hang up.

But as soon as he closed his phone and made to slip it back into his pocket, he felt the familiar vibration as it pulsed against his palm. He glanced down at the screen, recognized the UNKNOWN for what it was even if he was irked to see the name flash again, and quickly flipped the phone back open. "Hey."

"Henry. You alone?"

Out of habit, Henry glanced around; he was used to these abrupt conversation starters. He wondered where his father was and if he had seen his two visitors as they came and went, and he praised his foresight in getting a cabin all too himself. It was a lot easier to have these important talks with Wakefield when he didn't have to worry about any unfortunate eavesdroppers.

"Yeah," he said when he was certain. He'd even glanced out through the front window, but he didn't see anyone out there anymore. Not Trish, not Mr. Wellington, not even his own dad. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to let you know I took care of things."

Still wrapped up in everything that had happened ever since he arrived at his rented cabin and found that surprise in his tub, it took Henry a moment to remember that he'd asked his father for help that morning. "The reverend?"

"Yeah." Wakefield chuckled lowly. "Now that's one body that'll never be found."

Turning his back on the window as he walked back into the center of the room, Henry rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me… it's in another tree."

"Nope. I left this one it to the fishes. You were a boatman, Henry, I thought you'd appreciate that."

"That's great, Dad. And," he began, knowing he would never forgive himself if he didn't ask, "you got the head, too?" Morbid curiosity would keep him wondering if Reverend Fain's head was hiding under a bush out in the woods somewhere.

But then Wakefield sniffed and Henry knew he had offended him. "Of course I did. I'm no amateur."

"I'm sorry," Henry readily apologized. "I didn't mean it."

His father wasn't an easily placated man but, luckily for Henry, he had a soft spot when it came to his only son. Sounding only partly miffed, he said, "Yeah, well, I took care some of your business, now I need a little help from you. You still have that folder with the newspaper cut-outs in it?"

"Um, yeah. In my suitcase."

"Bring it," Wakefield ordered, "and meet me in the trees again. Bring a marker, too, red if you can find one. I already got my hands on some ink."

There was no time to question the strange orders or even to argue that night would be falling soon and, if he slipped down to the woods again, he might be cutting it close to arriving at the beach before the bonfire started. Not that he wasn't going to head straight down to the woods to meet with Wakefield—he was. He just had to be quick about it.

He hung up the phone then but, before he put it away, he turned the ringer back on. The bonfire would be crazy, loud and rambunctious. He could easily miss the vibration if his father called again later—and, with a sudden spark of ingenuity, knew that he would need him to—and the ring would be harder to miss. Satisfied, he slipped the phone back into his pocket at lost before crossing the room, reaching for the luggage he stowed there hours ago.

After absently tossing aside half the contents, including more fresh t-shirts, a pair of socks and the screwdriver he would need when he tended to the church later on, Henry's fingers closed on the manila folder hidden securely at the bottom of the case. The clipping regarding Abby's mother—_his_ mother—wasn't the only article from the newspaper that John Wakefield left with Henry or instructing him to bring with him to the island. He wasn't sure why exactly they were so necessary but at least he wasn't heading back to Abby's room with this one.

Tucking the envelope under his arm, Henry threw everything back into his suitcase, hastily zipped it shut and turned his attention to his father's second request. Where on earth was he supposed to find _any_ color market on such short notice?

But luck, it seemed, was on his side. He found two thin markers—one black, one red—in the same dresser drawer that housed a Bible and the Candlewick Inn's room service menu. Taking that to be a good sign, he stowed the red marker in his back pocket, readjusted the folder so that it was mostly hidden under his purple sleeve, and quickly left the cabin. He spared a thought to the door as he rushed out, wondering if it would be worth the minute it would take to lock it. The deer head alone proved it was pointless but Henry was nothing if not thorough. He locked the door, pocketed the keys and took off for the trees on the edge of the property.

Having the cabin as a starting point rather than a room inside the inn was a huge advantage. He didn't have to walk through the lobby, hoping to avoid questioning stares, and, by a matter of tricky shortcuts and an in-depth knowledge of the wedding preparations, he already knew which route was the fastest to pass by unseen. After only a few minutes journey at a quick pace, he met his father under the same tree they stood at last night. Henry knew it was the same tree, too, because of the ominous head spade his father was handling almost lovingly.

John Wakefield set it aside when he saw his son approaching. There was a familiar sneer on his face but light in his eyes—and Henry knew that someone else was already dead. There was no blood on his clothes, not like Henry expected there to be. When it came to murder, the man was a true professional.

"Henry," he greeted, "great job with the reverend. Nice even stroke, good clean cut. Couldn't have done better myself."

Only us, thought Henry, only me and Dad could have a conversation that made decapitation sound as routine as swinging a baseball bat during batting practice. Still, he made sure to thank his father for what—for Wakefield—had to be a compliment before handing off the folder. "Just like you wanted."

When Wakefield took the folder, Henry took the chance to say, "So, two down today, huh? I thought you were going to wait for the bonfire."

Wakefield didn't even bother asking how Henry knew. Like father, like son, the twisted instinct was there. "I am. Like I said, it was just some business I had to take care of. A loose end I just about tied up."

"What did you do?"

"I staged a suicide," he answered indifferently, rifling through the various clippings kept neatly in the folder. "Strung a bitch up just to give that damn bastard sheriff a headache."

That made Henry curious. Who would Wakefield feel was worth his time and his rope to serve as bait for Charlie Mills? "Who was it?"

"You remember Kate Seaver?"

Henry nodded. Of course he did. Kate Seaver used to work as the secretary in the sheriff's office—and she was also one of the six victims from Wakefield's first rampage on the island, back in 2001. Kate Seaver got in the way and she ended up hanging in the Tree of Woe with Sarah Mills and Christopher Cullen.

"Her brat."

"Kelly?" He was taken aback by that. Kelly was a local, she had nothing to do with Henry's plan or Wakefield's revenge. At least, not in Henry's opinion she didn't. Wakefield sought revenge on those who offended him simply by breathing. Trying not to look like he was questioning his father's judgment, he asked, "Why her?"

So preoccupied with choosing the article he needed, Wakefield didn't look up until he found it and closed the folder. Only then did he justify his actions. "I had to do it, Henry. She saw me."

In the last seven years Henry had found himself visiting Harper's Island more often than he probably should've. In that time he'd heard rumors about some of the locals, including how Wakefield's rampage was still affecting many of them so long after it happened. Henry knew better than to argue with his father but, if Kelly Seaver had seen John Wakefield in anything but her dreams and nightmares, he would've been incredibly surprised. However, that was one thought he decided to keep to himself.

"Did you know she was banging your brother?" Wakefield asked suddenly, changing the subject. "I mean, I say_ brother_ but—"

"Yeah," Henry cut in quickly, stopping Wakefield from heading down _that_ road again, "I understand. J.D., huh? With Kelly?" He shook his head. It made sense, in a weird sort of way. Lonely people needed love, too.

Wakefield's perverse pleasure was obvious, and it had nothing to do with sex. "Oh, yeah. I got her as soon as he slunk out the back door."

"No… no, I didn't know," Henry murmured, his mind more on how he could work this revelation to his advantage than the fact that his father had lurked outside Kelly's house, waiting for the opportunity to kill her.

It seemed like J.D. was looking for a little pleasure after all the trouble he caused down at the Cannery last night. And now Kelly was dead. Would anyone know he was the last one to see her before she died? Was this new revelation just another knot around the figurative noose that would hang J.D. Dunn in the end?

Well, he thought, it would be now…

Henry's musings were interrupted when Wakefield roughly shoved something in front of him. It was an article. "Here, I need you to write something on this for me."

Henry spared a glance at the article—it featured a familiar picture of Charlie Mills under the headline: _Sheriff Kills Suspect – John Wakefield_—before glancing to meet his father's defiant stare. He couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

"What fun is a cat and mouse game if the poor kitty doesn't know he's playing?"

It seemed like a risky move, leaving some sort of a taunting note when the last thing they should be doing was drawing the sheriff's attention to any sort of deaths. Then again, wouldn't a suicide—or what looked almost like a suicide—keep Charlie's attention away from any disappearances surrounding the Dunn-Wellington wedding?

"Okay," he conceded, "but why am I writing it?"

"Trust me," Wakefield said, very nearly chuckling under his breath, "he knows my handwriting."

It wasn't worth it to argue anymore; there wasn't any time left to, either. "What do you want it to say?" Henry asked, taking the marker out, removing its cap and placing it on the end. Spreading the article against the thigh of his jeans, he poised the tip above the newspaper, ready to write. In the long run, it was just easier if he went along with some of his father's more trying idiosyncrasies.

"I don't know, something like: catch me if you can? I'm going to drop it off at her house, he'll find it as soon as the girl gets found."

Well, there went the inconspicuousness of his father's actions. Not even Charlie could pretend—pretend like he actually shot and killed John Wakefield _pretend_—that it was a suicide with such a note left at the scene.

Still, Henry nodded and scrawled, just differently enough that it wasn't so obvious he was doing the writing: _You found her. Now find me. _He showed it to Wakefield. "Is that good?"

"Perfect."

"Great," Henry said, capping the marker again and fiddling it between his fingers. Thinking about Kelly and J.D. and the sheriff poking his nose around reminded him why it had been such a smart move to give Marty Dunn's phone back to his father. "Um, Dad? You still have Marty's phone, right?"

Wakefield patted his pocket. "Got it here."

"Do you think you could wait an hour or two then send me some sort of message on my phone from it? Just something to keep questions from being asked?"

"I'm sure I could figure something out."

"Thanks."

Feeling more confident than when this talk began, Henry handed the article back next, swapping it for the folder. He made to slip the marker back into pocket when his father stopped him. Wakefield held his free hand out, jerking his head at the marker. "Do you mind leaving that with me?"

Shrugging, Henry handed the slim red marker over before tucking his folder back under his arm. The sun was quickly setting and, breathing deeply, he was certain he could smell the faint whiff of the burning fuel from the fire down on the beach; it was getting ever later and, knowing Maggie, it had to be almost started. Shielding his eyes against the bright glow of the setting sun, he couldn't see any smoke or flames but he'd spent far too long away as it was. He shouldn't chance any more.

"Well," he began, turning back to look at Wakefield, "I really—"

And then he stopped. After all, here was no one there to listen to him.

His father was already gone.

* * *

**End note**: It's been awhile since I worked on this but, after writing and rewriting this chapter countless times over the last few weeks, I feel pretty confident that I was able to get in Henry's head again :) I wanted to finish episode two with this chapter but so much came up - an off camera chat with Trish, Maggie and Wakefield - that I didn't get the chance to show the canon scene. However, I plan on taking the end of "Crackle" on during the next chapter, plus an interlude that will set me up for "Ka-Blam".

_- stress, 04.27.10_


End file.
